The Chronicles of Katniss Part 2 - Mellark
by gaushawk
Summary: Katniss remains in Ireland with no way to return to Panem. Leading a small band of freedom fighters in a quest for revenge against those who have destroyed her quiet life, Katniss believes she will never return home to Peeta and their children, until a cohort reveals a secret kept from her alone. She immediately races home to rescue her family from the new Panem dictator.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

Thank you for reading my story. It is, of course, based on the original ideas and characters in the Hunger Games, created by Suzanne Collins. The Hunger Games is her intellectual property and I am not allowed to generate income from this volume of work, which is my intellectual property. It would be great if Suzanne Collins franchised the Hunger Games Universe and allowed publication through associated authors.

Please note this version of my novel is still in draft. I will continue editing to eliminate various issues with story continuity, grammar, spelling and issues that go against the rules of good writing. Any feedback (private messaging for edits), reviews, favs would be greatly appreciated.

I was always interested in how Katniss's life would pan out. There are many fanfiction stories about the actual Games and alternate stories about Katniss, Peeta et al. There is, however, very little about Katniss in the future. This is my continuation of her life, 25 years after the trilogy. The story is true to the books, not the films.

The contents here-in represent Part 2 of the Chronicles. It is essential that you read Part 1 first: s/13344187/1/The-Chronicles-of-Katniss-Part-1-Everdeen. Based on interest in this story, I may complete Part 3. The story does have a strong ending for Part 2 though, and an Epilogue.

**The Chronicles of Katniss - Part 2 - Mellark  
**

**Day 343 – Insurrection**

The guard slowly paces the length of the gray barracks and then turns to retrace his steps. I track him with my arrow but without watching him directly, taking care not to alert him to our presence. The spotlights of the barracks reflect off the light rain, creating a thick haze, so that watching the guard is like watching someone through a lightly frosted pane of glass. I wait for Connor and Ronan to signal from the building to the right that they are ready. Gusts of wind periodically blow cold raindrops into my face and I realise I am going to have to be careful with my shot to ensure a clean strike.

The wind, light and rain will all have an effect and I curse myself for choosing this tactic earlier today when it was bright and sunny. I should have known the weather would turn, as it always does on the Irish islands. I am still not used to the weather, even after nearly 10 months here. The Irish seem to revel in it though and indeed, on hotter days they sometimes complain about the heat. For me though there is not enough sunshine and far too much rain.

I try to avoid direct assaults on barracks and Garda stations but this time there is little choice. The building architecture and limited approaches combined with the well-planned patrol schedules and routes have made this raid in Newbridge the toughest mission yet. The only possibility for success that I can see is to eliminate the two guards rather than capture them as we usually do. When I have killed this one we have about twenty seconds before the second guard comes into view and sees the body. We need to be at the corner of the barracks before he rounds it so that we can ensure he makes no sound and possibly alert the soldiers inside to our presence.

The signal from Connor, a waving red scarf in the rear of a dark building to the right, starts my heart beating faster. Even after five successful raids I am nervous and flushed, adrenalin coursing through my body, my heart thumping against my ribs. Now I need to gain maximum time for the team to reach the corner. The second guard turns and heads away from the corner of the building so I focus on the one closest to me. I cannot see his face well and am suddenly glad for the haze, even if it makes my shot more difficult. I need to maintain my detachment, stay focused on my objective. I will not allow emotion to affect my course of action.

"When you are ready Katniss," says Thomas, crouched next to me, in a quiet and calm voice.

My own inner-voice takes control, issuing instructions to me. Breathe in. Deeper. Hold and steady. Watch the guard. Movement is constant. Wait for the wind to stop gusting. Aim a little higher. More to the right. Lower. Draw back more. String to lips. Breathe out. Relax shoulders. Steady. Release.

My bent fingers flex and the arrow flies, disappearing in the darkness and then catching the light moments before it strikes the target. The thick atmosphere muffles the sound of him crumpling to the ground, lifeless. He didn't know what happened, and I hope it was painless. The shot was precise and I know that a family has lost a son, perhaps a husband and a father. But he is part of the Union, the regime that oppresses the Irish people, and I feel no regret. We usually don't have to kill anyone but it means little to me if we do.

Connor and Ronan are at the body in seconds, Ronan pausing to check for signs of life that I know he will not find. Connor makes it to the corner silently and flattens himself against the poorly painted wall. Ronan joins him and they wait, staring back at Thomas and me in our position snuggled against a hedge. When the second guard appears from the shadow Thomas signals and Connor launches himself, smothering the guard. They disappear back into the shadow, Ronan close behind. Thomas and I wait in fearful anticipation but the concern is unfounded as our two friends appear again.

I hook the bow over my shoulder and take up the rifle on the ground. Thomas still has the grenade launcher pointed at the building, ready to respond to any threats. We leave our position and run hunched over to the cover of the building closest to the barracks. Ronan and Connor have dragged the first body around the corner into the shadows where I presume they have hidden the other guard. We make it to the house, check the approaches, then sprint across to the barracks gates, scanning for danger as we do. Ronan and Connor arrive as we do and we all stand in slight shadow either side of the gate.

Connor gestures and we enter through the gate, spreading out across the compound, Connor to the door and the rest toward different windows. All the new barracks built by the Union have the same floorplan, so we know exactly how to break in. Each of us checks their allocated entrance and Ronan is the first to give off a soft whistle.

Thomas and I move to Ronan but Connor whistles as well so Thomas reverses direction, closely followed by Ronan and me. The door is definitely easier. We all slip into the building, Connor closing the door behind us to block out most of the available light. We pause in the entrance, silently confirming our next steps. Thomas and I move first, down opposites sides of the dark corridor. At the first doors we stop, and wait for the others to slide past us. We leapfrog like this to the sleeping quarters where I take watch at the door whilst the others enter. Ronan and Thomas stand guard inside whilst Connor uses a nano-injection in each soldier's neck to painlessly sedate the soldiers.

This is the part of our raid with the highest risk. Soldiers have woken only twice during the process but Connor covered their mouths for a second or two until the drug knocked them out. Once they are all asleep we can wander around the barracks without interruption. Matteo is the one who suggested the method and I applauded it; it reduces the risk of injury or death for us. I care little for the soldiers. It also leave no visible mark to show how they are incapacitated. At some stage the Union will work it out but the success tonight shows that is not yet.

After four minutes the three men join me in the corridor. It usually takes longer to sedate the sleepers. There must be less soldiers posted here. All the noises from wind and rain, as well as rats and other creatures, has raised my nervousness so I am glad when they are briefly back with me.

From here we split up. Ronan and Connor look for food supplies whilst Thomas and I look for useful weapons and other supplies like medicines. Not all the supplies are for us. We have been distributing to Thomas's network of 'friends' in return for their support.

An hour later the truck outside is loaded and, despite repeated protests about time from Thomas I take a quick look through the barracks. At the end of a short corridor I see a wooden door with a small opening set in it. This is different from other barracks we have raided but it reminds me of the Garda station in New Dublin. The door has a fastened bolt and a locked padlock. It looks like a prison door so I take out a torch to shine through the opening. I still harbour hopes of finding Shar, Farrell and the others, none of whom have been seen since Connor and I were taken to the Rock all those months ago. The torch illuminates a room that is very much like the first one I occupied with Shar. I call for the others. Connor arrives within seconds. I do not have to explain the situation, we check all the buildings for prisoners and have successfully rescued four Irishmen in the previous raids, all arrested for opposition to the Union. Connor takes a stolen ring of keys from his coat pocket. The third one produces a click and the padlock is open.

Carefully we enter the room, weapons and torches tracing from left to right and back. At times like this I use a handgun because the bow is too bulky and needs two hands. The new bow Connor gave me is beautiful, like the first one, but totally inadequate for situations such as this.

The room is disappointingly empty. I walk over to the cot and sit on it for a few moments, thinking of Shar and her time in prison, and how we rescued her. Above me in the dark on the far wall there should be a window. My torch shines up at the wall and I see patched brickwork. No-one will repeat Shar's escape; the Union are blocking all the windows to prevent similar attempts.

Where could Shar and the others be? Connor asked the network, as did Thomas, without a positive result. Although the damage from our battle at the farmyard was evident there was no trace of where Farrell took the others. Is she alright? Is she safe? She must be lonely, with a group of strangers in a foreign land. I need to find her, although I do not know how I can take her home. Without an aircraft we are stuck here the rest of our lives.

Connor is standing next to me with an expectant look on his face as he repeatedly looks over his shoulder, a tell-tale sign it is time to go. I stand and shine my light around the room, hoping to see any evidence she was here. Then I follow Connor to the door. As we head down the stone corridor toward the exit Ronan bursts through it, closely followed by Thomas. "Truck, there's another truck!"

Connor goes to a window, glancing out to the courtyard.

"Did they see you?" I ask.

"Nil," he starts in Irish, then switches to English, "No, I heard them before they reached the gate," says Ronan in a burst of words.

"Is the first truck closed up?" Connor asks, checking for anything that may alert the inbound soldiers.

"Yes … Maybe ... I think so."

I step forward now, "Well, which is it?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Good. Everyone down against the walls, face the door. Wait for my signal, then jump up and fire through the windows."

I retreat down the corridor and unhook my bow as the others lie prone against the walls in the shadows. I wait hunched down, arrow aimed at the door. Patience is called for again. Twice in one raid. It is not my strong point. The door swings open and a soldier steps in around the corner, takes four steps and sees Connor on the ground. The moment he stops to work out what the shape in front of him is, a threat, a foreign object, I release my arrow, striking him in the throat. He drops to his knees, his hands at his throat, desperately trying to remove the arrow buried too far to be withdrawn.

Connor pulls him to the floor, covering his mouth to stops the gurgling. His legs are thrashing, his mind not knowing whether to fight his assailant or remove the arrow. Ronan scrambles across the corridor and grabs the legs in his arms, using his weight to pin them down. The struggling weakens rapidly but not before another soldier walks through the door and sees the three bodies on the ground.

I loose another arrow, killing instantly as it strikes through the man's temple. The impact knocks him backwards into the doorway, and the door crashes against the wall.

"Up! Up! Now! Now!" I scream at my three cohorts.

Thomas is at the middle window, firing his rifle. I am up and at the left window with my handgun, my bow on the floor behind me. The windowsill is high on the wall so I cannot see the whole courtyard. I see the driver in the second truck still in the cabin and fire at him, three, four, five rounds. His body jerks as at least one shot finds its mark. Ronan jumps to the third window, closest to the door. He smashes the glass with the butt of his rifle, which he reverses and starts firing.

The noise in the narrow corridor is deafening, drowning out all other senses. Smoke from the gunpowder blows back into the corridor. I cannot see anyone else in the courtyard. There could be a few but with my view obscured, I cannot tell. For a moment I hesitate and in that moment Connor jumps out through the door. Shots crack as he disappears. Ronan races after him. I release the magazine and slam a new full one into my gun.

Thomas turns to me and is about to speak when his eyes move past my right shoulder, his face spreads in surprise and the start of a warning. I swing my arm and gun around blind, firing back down the corridor. Then I am on my left knee facing back up the corridor, weapon aimed double-handed at a still-groggy soldier, a line of bullet holes along the wall ending where he crumples slowly to the floor. I watch, entranced into immobility as he loses the battle to stay on his feet, his coveralls darkening in three patches. His right hand unwillingly releases the pistol that could have killed me and it clatters to the floor.

When his collapse ceases and he starts his final rest motionless against the brick wall I rise and walk over to him, watching the doors further down the corridor in case any of the other sleepers waken. He stares at me as I walk but I know he sees nothing. The position of the dark patches tell me my bullets were terminal. His chocolate skin and dark hair tell me he is not Irish. He has died in a foreign land, something I hope I will not do.

I load a new magazine and proceed cautiously to the dormitory. I take a quick peek around the corner of the door and pull back to the corridor. There is no one standing inside the room, but I am not sure how many bodies are still in the beds. I inhale deeply, and then exhale completely before drawing in a breath, holding it for a second and swivelling into the doorway, dropping to my knee again. My weapon points down the room but there is no threat to aim at. All the occupants are asleep, as I expected the man behind me to be.

The smoke from the shooting in the corridor is wafting into the room so I rise and follow it in, taking slow short steps to keep my balance centered in case I need to dive to the side. The dark room makes it hard to see detail so I am wary despite the men appearing to be asleep. I approach the first bed and pause, looking down at the comatose soldier.

He and his compatriots are the reason I am here. If they had not taken over Ireland, if they had just left the people here in peace, I would never have come here. Sure, there would have been some type of confrontation with that mad Jason Coin, but at least I would be in my own land. This person, this soldier, is the reason I am here.

My pistol rises, almost of its own volition, to point at the soldier's head. The soldier is sleeping on his stomach but starts to stir and rolls to his side so that I see his face in profile. He looks Irish. He has the ginger Irish look. Well, if he is Irish then he is a traitor, he is working for the Union, and that makes him responsible. I raise my pistol again.

"Don't do it Katniss," Thomas's worried voice breaks my focus. My gun stays aimed at the freckled cheek, my finger starts to squeeze.

My thoughts are clear: _I lost my home; he is responsible for me being here!_

"The more you kill, the more will come," says Thomas, a nervous edge to his voice.

"They can come, I will hunt them all, I will defeat them all."

"Then we will all suffer. People will die…"

"People suffer, die, all the time."

"There are better ways, Katniss," his voice softer, placating.

Then I hear Connor's voice, "Katniss, this is murder."

I realise everything is quiet. There are no gunshots, no fighting, nothing. All I can hear are the words of my companions. Connor puts his hand on my arm and pushes gently but firmly so that the pistol aims at the floor. "Don't lose who you are, Katniss," he says quietly, then "we need to leave."

He takes the weapon from my hand as the anger in me subsides and the immediate situation pushes back into my consciousness. There is a pain in my upper left arm so I reach up and feel a slight wetness. Did the soldier in the corridor shoot me? I say nothing to Connor; we need to leave here before someone raises the alarm.

I stare at the young man in his Union uniform, laying asleep, oblivious to how close he was to death. The ginger hair and freckles trigger a thought. Shar!

Turning away from freckled face I see Ronan at the door. There is shock in his visage. I realise how young he and the soldier are. They deserve long lives. Is Thomas right, that the fighting will bring too many soldiers? Even if it does, the Union will not leave unless the Irish force them out. We won't free Ireland without casualties, although we must avoid the number of deaths we had in Panem during the rebellion.

"Let's go, before someone alerts the Union," I say, and march past the others and out of the building to the waiting truck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 344 - Betrayal**

Going into a high-risk situation of armed conflict, where your time on this Earth could end, causes your body chemistry and mental outlook to warp, to affect your abilities. Some changes are positive; you are able to stay awake longer, adrenalin makes you faster, stronger. Stress on the other hand affects your decision making; thoughts become clouded, fear stops you thinking rationally. The combination usually means sleep deserts me the day after a raid, just as it does the night before. I am too wound up with nervous energy.

Later I will discuss the events with the others but I spend the day alone, completing my own assessment first. I review all aspects of the night and try to understand how we can plan better, avoid errors, keep the modus operandi fresh. Last night the battle was not part of my original plan and the second truck was obviously unexpected. I will have to factor for more in the next raid we carry out.

Last time I checked the men who went on the raid with me were all asleep, the long night catching up with them a little after breakfast. It is late afternoon now and the light is fading fast, as it does in the deep winter months. Only Isabella and Matteo were awake with me although they were resting in the lounge. They struggle to sleep when we are out on the raids from worry. It usually takes two or three days for us all to recover. That is one of the reasons we plan a raid only every three to four weeks.

Last night was the sixth raid in our campaign against the Union. When we left Cork airport I was furious, devising a plan to strike back at the Union and rally the people of these Irish islands to stand up against the regime. To achieve both I convinced the others we needed to start raids against the Union, hitting the bases, taking supplies, and freeing prisoners. If we could have a few successful sorties against the Union then other nationalists would hear about it and start fighting. We have heard from Thomas of other attacks, so the idea is catching.

My companions were all surprised how I planned and led the attacks. They had never worked with military planning and understanding. I definitely have more formal knowledge and experience than the rest due to my training in District 13 and fighting in the rebellion, so I am the natural leader. With each raid confidence grew as everything went according to plan. Until the second truck appeared during this raid, that is. Even then, they handled it with a level of maturity that in return surprised me.

The fading light from outside has ceased providing any assistance so I head to the main room to fetch candles, wondering what the others are doing. As I walk in I hear people talking quietly. My five companions, Connor, Ronan, Isabella, Matteo and Thomas, are all sitting at the robust, farmhouse-style dining table near the kitchen area. Four large candles provide a golden, pale light across the worn but solid rectangular wooden table from positions along the centre of the table.

"…and I will not go again." Thomas, with his back to me, is saying.

Connor is sitting opposite him and starts to respond, "She is not…" when he suddenly sees me in the shadow by the doorway and stops talking.

Thomas sees the attention of Connor divert away from him and his head whips around anxiously. After a brief meeting of eyes he turns away from me with a guilty look.

I walk over to the left end of the table and pull out the heavy wooden chair but remain standing behind it whilst keeping my eyes on Thomas, who is in the closest chair on my right. Opposite Thomas are Connor and Ronan; next to Thomas are Matteo and Isabella. His words and expression tell me he is unhappy. The tension and unease in the group is palpable, everyone avoiding looking directly at me.

"She is not what?" I ask, turning to Connor. My father taught me that standing during a discussion gives you a position of dominance. I lean on the chair back and stare at him, waiting for his answer, but he looks across at Thomas instead.

"As I was saying to the others, I will not go out with you again, I am going home," Thomas says quietly, still not meeting my eyes.

"We've had six successful raids. You told us that others are joining. We are making progress. We cannot stop now," I say.

"Then let the others continue the fight. I am done, we all are. The risk is growing."

"That is what happens in a rebellion. We have to join together with more rebels; we have to fight for what we want!"

"Thomas, we all agreed…," Connor starts to say, but Thomas interrupts him.

"I didn't agree to all the killing, and the risk."

"We have been waiting a long time…"

"You have been waiting a long time. I haven't. If it wasn't for my brother-in-law and people like you we would never have lost what we had. We had quiet lives, we were living in peace. What was so wrong with the Union anyway? They didn't kill anyone. Everything worked. The rebels caused the EMF strikes and our current way of living."

Then Thomas looks up at me, "Katniss, you can carry on fighting. I have a wife waiting for me. Being away puts my family at extreme risk. I need to go home."

"Home? You want to go home? I don't have a home! My family thinks I am dead! This is your country, how dare you tell me to keep fighting while you go home!" I have stepped forward and my hand slams onto the table. I see the look on their faces. Have they seen me angry like this before? Possibly not. I stand back to calm myself.

"There was nothing wrong with our tactics. The second truck was an aberration; we will plan for that next…"

"I will not go out with you again, chasing your revenge. You take too many risks and the Union is increasing squad numbers and patrols. It is only a matter of time until someone gets killed," says Thomas, looking away from me to the others, seeking strength in their approval.

Why can't he look at me? He is obviously scared. Fear is not something we can carry. Perhaps it is best he leave us.

"Fine. You can leave if you are scared. We don't want any weakness in the team. You will endanger us more than the Union. The five of us will carry on without you," I almost spit at him.

He looks directly into my eyes, his face serene, and his eyes suddenly unwavering. "That is where you are wrong. I am not scared, of you or the raiding. My last task will be to take Matteo and Isabella to a friend further south who has a fishing boat. They are going back to Italy," retorts Thomas, a glint of malice in his eye.

Matteo and Isabella avoid my stare. "Are you all giving up? We started this for you, to fight the Union," I look at Ronan and Connor but they are both staring at the mugs in front of them. "Are you two going to farm mushrooms then?"

"Katniss…," is the first word Connor has uttered since I walked in.

Thomas interjects, "You started the attacks because you wanted revenge."

"I didn't…," I start to say, but I cannot finish. I am angry and I am not going to give up now.

My mind is spinning. This could delay my plans. I have to stop the group splitting up. I cannot run the raids with only three people. We could find others. There are other people rebelling. But could I trust strangers? I know I can trust this team; we have worked so well together.

"Thomas, we can go to New Dublin, you can stay with your wife and the rest of us will stay in Farrell's farmhouse. We can use New Dublin as a base, push out from there but return so that you can be with your family."

"The only reason I have been with you is Siobhan. She wanted me to find her mad brother. I think six months is enough. We aren't going to find Farrell, the Union must have him. I am not a fighter, I do not believe in your cause, or your methods. You can stay at the farm, I will not help you again," says Thomas.

There is an air of finality in his voice and I decide not to argue with him. He was never part of our main Rock group anyway. I wish Cronan were here instead. As old as he was, I know he would support me.

I turn to the Italians, wondering why they are leaving. Perhaps they need more social interaction. Perhaps the stress of revolution is getting to them, or they feel unneeded. What motivation could keep them here?

"Matteo, Isabella, we can go to New Dublin, it is nice there. We can integrate better in a larger town; society is broader, more diverse. You can see more people," I say, thinking quickly of how to keep my new family together.

Matteo speaks slowly in his faulty English, "It is not being with people, it is being with our people. We go to Italy. It is not the fighting, we want to fight. In our way, for our people. This will help you here. We tell everyone to fight. The Union will spread soldiers. Then little more soldiers will come here."

Isabella has been like a daughter to me. How can I protect her if she is not with me? Then I realise, every parent goes through the same issue, letting their children go. We cannot protect them forever so it is our duty to teach them enough that they can protect themselves. It is particularly hard for me though; it is in my nature to protect my own. How can I let her go?

It dawns on me that although we all escaped together we would not stay together forever. I did think we would all go to Panem, that I could go home and they could all start a new life without the Union, but with Coin engineering a coup d'état that new life would not be much different to life under the Union.

The inevitability of the split breaks me and I turn from the table. My intended path is the bedroom wing, where I share a room with Isabella, but my feet take me toward the front door. I take my jacket off the stand and burst out into the cold and brittle night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 345 – Letting go**

Questioning my own actions is not something I have done for a long, long time. Throughout the last twenty-five years I have always been confident of my reasons for each decision I have made. Through the years after the revolution my motives were always the betterment of me and mine. During the dark years when Peeta and I suffered through nightmares and mental pain, during the years of rebuilding ourselves, I was always focussed on us and getting better. Then the children were born and my motives expanded to include them. Their growth and future dominated. Whatever happened, it was always for the betterment of us all.

Now I am not sure. The conversation last night with Thomas has left me questioning what I am doing and who I have become. The challenge that I am looking for revenge has struck a nerve, a deep one. I walked around the farm in the biting night air with images of the young man, asleep on his cot, my pistol aimed at his head. Would I have killed him, no, murdered him, if Thomas and Connor had not intervened? What have I become? Only the intervention of Connor, somehow locating me in the dark, stopped my wandering.

After that sleep rejected me just as my companions did, caused by a combination of my body recovering from the numbness caused by the chill night air and my mind travelling from Ireland to Panem and back a hundred times. The problem was that Panem has become so ethereal in my memory that I am struggling to find evidence it existed in my past, even though I know it did. The extreme nature of fighting a war overwhelms other memories, good memories. I am sure the day was starting to manifest when I finally escaped to the welcome numbness of sleep.

I slowly materialise into wakefulness, alone in Connor's room. I share a room with Isabella, but after last night I could not go there. Daylight frames the heavy faded curtains, casting enough light for me to realise it is somewhere around midday. The bed springs emit a rusty sigh of relief as I rise and open the curtains. It is indeed midday, and the sky is a pale blue, unusually bereft of cloud.

As I look out over the empty farm vista memories of the last forty-eight hours explode in my head; the raid, the argument, last night outside, the sleepless night. A far more primal urge – hunger – fights to beat back the memories and I realise I have not eaten in over twenty-four hours. My last meal was breakfast yesterday. And yet I stay at the window, not wanting to face the others.

Last night I acknowledged some hard truths. The six months prior have been all about attacking the Union. My single-minded goal was to hurt the Union because they hurt me. It took time to face the reality and see that Thomas was correct. All this time my own personal revenge drove me, not freeing Ireland. Worse than that, and this came to me as an epiphany as I lay sleepless in my bed, I have not thought about my family or Panem in months.

I try to focus on my family to escape from this place. I stare out the window and try to picture the faces of Peeta, my loyal and loving husband, Jewel, my beautiful and serious daughter, and Stone, my fun and energetic son. Nothing. I try to think of their laughter and close my eyes to hear their voices in my head. Nothing. In my mind I try to visualise myself hugging them all, separately and as a group. Nothing. I think of the fragrances of their washed hair and Peeta's after-shave. Nothing.

Tears fill my eyes, blurring the view outside the window. Have I lost them? It has been so long since I left Panem. I left in winter and it is now the next winter. The children will be bigger, especially Stone. They have been through so much without me, because I left on this machinated mission, because I was irrational about Peeta and the Capitol. How are they all? Has Peeta found someone else? I can guarantee Manda Wakeford will be chasing him, although I doubt he would choose her. If I could take back the last year I would.

The door opens with a creak and Connor slips in the room. I brush my tears away and turn toward him, my only friend. I walk over to where he waits, visibly uncertain of how I am going to act, so I rest my head against his chest, my arms wrap around his waist. He in turn enfolds me around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. We stand silently as I take comfort that I am not completely alone.

"I have heated water on the fire, there is a bath for you," he murmurs.

A bath! When was the last time I had a real bath? I cannot remember.

"A bath! That sounds perfect, thank you," I reply, almost formally, but the words inadequately describe my excitement and gratitude.

He leads me to the old inside bathroom where there used to be electricity and running water. The plumbing does not work so someone built ablutions outside. It is more sanitary that way. The bathroom's plaster walls retain their white-wash colour, which is amazing considering the amount of steam that once would have permeated the room. An old roughly-woven rug covers the wooden floor that is stained dark from years of water spills. The blue and red stripes of the carpet are pale, faded, but still distinct. Steam rises from the pearl-white bath that hunches on four ornate cat-like legs in the corner. On a chair near the bath is a towel, soap and a bottle that looks like shampoo, as well as a wooden thick-toothed hair brush, a wash cloth and a luffa. A hook on the wall supports a set of clean clothing.

This is a genuine luxury for me. I feel like I did the first time I left District 12, on the train to the Capitol for the 74th Hunger Games. The opulence of the dining car, the softness of the bed, the quality of the clothing they gave me, it all fades in comparison to this. Connor has arranged everything with such care, without leaving anything out.

I haven't had a proper bath in two months! Growing up in the Seam a bath was a chore reserved for Sunday night before the school week and special occasions such as my father's funeral and the annual reaping. We only had a small round wooden bath, made from half a barrel that we filled with hot water heated above a fire. We were too poor to waste electricity on heating water, preferring to keep it for lighting for the two to three hours it may have been on at night. Bathing never purged the smell smoke of the internal cooker and fireplace out of your hair though. After the rebellion bathing became a daily ritual, a token of prosperity, which we could afford to do every day. Then it became a necessity, a matter of hygiene. Even imprisoned in the Rock, we had showers. So the last six months have been difficult for me without proper hygiene.

The lifestyle of a rebel on the run from the government is not conducive to extravagances. We have the bare minimum of possessions, no luxuries at all, and certainly no time to relax. Drones are always a threat and any sign of activity that is unusual or out-of-place is rapidly detected. We are constantly moving from one abandoned farmhouse to another, always looking to leave no trace we were there. Fires we do light are always small, so Connor has taken a risk heating a bath full of water.

I do wonder, however, why Connor has done this but the thought quickly evaporates like the steam off the bath.

"Connor…"

"Relax, enjoy it. You deserve it," he responds before I can complete my thanks, and exits the room, the latch click signalling that I am alone, with no-one to bother me. I usually feel guilty every time someone tells me I deserve something good. I remember Effie Trinket telling me I deserved adulation for surviving the Hunger Games. I didn't think I deserved it, killing people to stay alive. This, however, I think I deserve.

I wiggle out of the sticky, rough-spun clothes I have worn for the last three days like a snake shedding its old skin. Despite the steam from the bath the room is cold so I hustle over to the bath, shivering a little as the cold air snaps at my exposed skin, trying to capture me before I escape to the warmth of the water. I reach to feel the temperature of the water. The water is hot; Connor must have worked fast to make it so hot.

Dropping into a hot bath is something one does slowly. I think it will be hotter than I normally like and besides, toes are too dainty to dip in first, so my right foot dips into the water, heel first. The water burns at my skin but I hold my position whilst blowing out a few short hard breaths that don't really help. Then, inch by inch, my leg is in to the knee, foot on the bottom. I grab the edge of the bath and ease my weight onto the leg in the bath. No going back now! My second foot goes in, then the leg. I grip the enamel on both sides, shift my weight to my arms, and lower myself, little by little, until my butt hits bottom. Then I lay back slowly until my back rests against the relatively cold bath, curved to cocoon whoever has the opportunity to relax in it.

There is a feeling of peace as I sink deeper into the hot water, but a pain in my upper arm pierces it and I jerk up in shock. On my arm is a wound, raw and framed with dried blood. So my arm was grazed by a bullet, is my strangely detached thought, as if I were a doctor looking at a patient. I must not tell the others, it will just add to Thomas's viewpoint that something will go wrong. I ease back into the bath slowly, ignoring the added sting in my arm as the water contacts the damaged flesh. The heat of the water overcomes the stinging sensation and I regain the calm I felt as I first sank into the water.

The water enfolds me and I forget about everything, content to escape from the world, almost weightless. My body slides deeper until my ears are below the surface, so that only my face protrudes, the feeling of the cooler air is out of place. I close my eyes and watch the residual light images dance across the inside of my eyelids. The murmur of the water each time I move, even slightly, is all I can hear. The heat of the water overloads my senses. And for a brief while I gratefully leave the world behind, finding a long-lost serenity.

…

I walk out to the main room of the house. As before the others are all there, although they now occupy the lumpy old couches closer to the door through which I entered. They are all quiet, watching me expectantly, nervously. I feel guilty, I was the hostile person last night and despite going against me Thomas did not deserve the aggression. Neither did the others, especially Connor was supportive.

An empty space next to Isabella beckons so I take it. There is a tension but not like last night when I walked into the conversation. This time it is more apprehension of what I will do. My actions last night were not friendly. I am not in the same state of mind though. The long night and relaxing bath have both diffused my anger and disappointment. Connor knows me so well, after a year together. He obviously meant to achieve this result by drawing the bath. Am I so easy to read?

They are all waiting for me, waiting for me to say something. And now that I look at them in the light of day I know we will part and there is no point doing so with bad blood between us.

"Thomas, you need not take Matteo and Isabella to the harbour. It is far beyond your home, If Connor and Ronan agree then the three of us will escort them," I say. Connor and Ronan immediately vocalise consent.

"There is safety in numbers," I continue, "We can all go to New Dublin, see you safely to Siobhan, then the five of us can continue to New Ross. From there the three of us can make our way to Cork, I want to check for signs of the others. That way Siobhan will not be too hard on you as the search for Farrell will continue."

The shock and relief on the faces is hard to hide. I guess they were all expecting me to be angry, try to stop them taking their own paths. Perhaps they had prepared for a long debate about what our futures held. In that one statement their tension had been much deflated.

Connor is the exception. He sits with a satisfied look on his face, knowing that his ploy has worked. So I was right, the bath was a calculated move. He knows me so well. And yet I still find it hard to read him. He has an advantage over me, knowing me better than I know him. I do not like being on the back foot with anyone. The problem is that Connor's easy nature and charming ways make it hard to be anything but friendly with him. Sometimes, though, he comes across as flippant and I wish he would be a little more serious.

"So, what is next then?" asks Thomas.

"That depends on you," I answer, "When do you want to leave?"

"I guess as soon as possible … we hadn't discussed a date," replies Thomas.

"The sooner the better, but we need to distribute the supplies from the last raid and we need your help to do that," says Connor.

"I am happy with that, since you are taking the Italians to New Ross," responds Thomas.

We spend the next hour making travel arrangements, avoiding discussion of last night's confrontation and of our imminent parting. Darkness approaches before we are complete so Isabella moves to the kitchen area, still within earshot, to heat the rabbit stew and refresh it with some tubers. I can see her from my chair, and I watch her with a heavy heart, knowing I will miss her, just as I miss Jewel.


	4. Chapter 4

Laragh

The first three months after our escape we moved around the archipelago, staying mainly on the larger islands, a week here, a week there. The need to avoid the Union soldiers and Garda forced us to move. Connor's main concern was reducing the chance of the Union connecting the kind people who helped us, to us. The other benefit of moving was that the union could not identify from where we were attacking. Travelling across water, however, always involved risk.

That all changed when we headed east to the Wicklow mountains on the island of Cúige Laighean, which Connor told me to call Leinster Island. It changed because I found a place that was closest to my own home, to 12. Leaving the area hurts because it reminds me of the precious family I have left behind and where I currently am. Staying in the area has the same effect but I would rather feel hurt than feel nothing at all. I need to feel, to keep the hope alive that someday I will make it back. I will not leave this place by choice.

The first time we came here it was early autumn. We crossed from the largest island where New Dublin is located, called Munster Island, via the Bally Bridge. The Bally Bridge is actually a ferry that runs morning and afternoon from Ballylynan on Munster Island to a landing near Ballytore on Leinster Island, across the Carlow Sound. The sun was still below the horizon as we crossed the fourteen kilometres of water, the far shore a distant dark smudge outlined by the lightening eastern sky. As we neared Ballytore, the wind at our backs, the clouds thickened and rain lashed the ferry. We ducked under cover and so my first arrival on Leinster Island was more about the weather than the island itself.

Since then, however, I have explored many parts of the island and am in awe of the beauty of this place. The mountains and valleys are spectacular, the forests have been there longer that the first footprint of a man. It leaves me feeling so small and insignificant. Could one person truly leave any permanent mark? Many people together, however, can, sometimes for bad and sometimes for good.

As we hiked the fifty-five kilometres to our destination the weather cleared and a stunning landscape revealed itself. There were farms in varying degrees of harvest, depending on the crop, and farmers were still working in many fields. Activity is good cover for us. When there are people scattered across the landscape drones will not register our behaviour as suspicious. So that day we walked on the deteriorating tarred road, relaxed and laughing.

It was mid-afternoon when we reached the highest point on the journey. Connor called for a short break near the top of a mountain, using the lee of a rock wall to keep us out the early autumn wind, but none of us wanted to sit down. We had stopped at Wicklow Gap.

The vista at Wicklow Gap is at once stark and rich and, as we did that first time, I have to pause every time I travel across it. Rocks pockmark the entire landscape and I am always grateful we have a road to walk on. The barren mountain-tops contrast with the forested valleys, but are no less beautiful. Meadows stretch across the mountain tops and are rich in plant life, alluring with subtle variation of colour across the terrain due to the small bushes. Most of the shrubs are green with small pale purple flowers with some dying or wilting and appear brown. When I asked Connor what the purple plants were the answer was Ling, although Thomas chipped in with Heather. Either way, the colours shift with the wind, reminding me of the waves that surged across the water we crossed when coming here.

Along the road there were the remnants of sweet little yellow flowers. Thomas pointed them out, telling me they are very useful plants called gorse. "Gorse, wonderful flowers they are," said Connor with his Irish lilt adding a hint of mystery and mischief. I turned to look at him and he stepped toward me with a broadening grin. "The old people used to say 'When gorse is in flower, kissing is in fashion'… how about it?" Before I could respond Isabella appeared next to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek and then moved to me to do the same. I managed to whisper my thanks and hugged her hard, grateful that she was with us.

From Wicklow Gap one can see for tens of kilometres, especially from the top of the mountain, Tonelagee. On clearer days the mornings are golden and orange and the setting sun in the afternoon creates auras of purple, orange and pink. There is always the orange though, morning or night. There have been days when I have sat alone atop the mountains, next to an ancient standing stone, as day and night swap shifts, to catch a glimpse of my beloved husband's favourite colour, and look west toward him, where I will never return to rest in his arms, feel his slow, strong heartbeat resonate against me. Alone on that mountain is the only time I surrender myself to my fate, and shed tears that I will not see my husband and my children ever again.

That first day we descended from Wicklow Gap in the fading light of day, as night starts to pull a cloak gently across the body of mother Earth. Our destination was a smallholding in an ancient village called An Láithreach. Some of the old signs show Laragh as the name as well. The village lies in the heart of the Wicklow Mountains, in a valley with peaks all around.

As we moved east the scenery changed and I walked the road in a daze, despite the growing darkness. It was as if I was walking back slowly in both time and direction across the ocean into District 12. The mountains may not have been as high, but the forests and the beauty of the valleys took my mind to my home and my family. I knew then I would not leave this place except for our missions.

We arrived in autumn when trees were shedding their leaves, laying a patchwork carpet of yellow, orange and brown, welcoming us in. Darker perennials stood tall against the background, intensifying the mystique of this special place. The village was quiet, peaceful, as if the mountains protected it from the outside world.

The house that was to become our home appeared from nowhere, nestled amongst the trees and foliage. Indeed, vines covered the building, bringing it to life with a mantle of green. It was the oldest house I have stayed in. Most of the original structure remains, build of local stone and mortar. Additions over the years have only enhanced the charm of the building. To the rear of the house lies a large open paddock, out of place in this narrow, forested valley. The surrounding trees add an atmosphere of mystery, hiding much of the area from view. It was secretive, secluded, beautiful, and perfect for us.

Laragh is now our base. The house is owned by friends of Thomas, although they rarely come here, preferring to stay in New Dublin. Extensive forests, game, vegetables, fresh water, easy access to the four cardinal directions, these all combine to make it a perfect location to not only operate from, but settle and live.

Except for the intermittent raids against the Union we spend our time here in the mountains. Life is very much like my early life in District 12. Our daily routine involves sourcing food, cleaning and keeping a lookout for the Union. Isabella and Matteo mostly remain at the house, avoiding the locals and cooking the food I bring in, as well as tending a garden of vegetables and herbs. Ronan and Connor look after security, as well as taking care of the interaction with the villagers. We very quickly learned it was best for me to trap and hunt, rather than the others. A lifetime spent in the forest and meadow back home made me the most efficient at catching game. Isabella and Connor sometimes join me on my outings, helping to carry game and keeping quiet company with me, on my insistence. You cannot catch food if it runs away from noise before you have sight of it.

The lifestyle suits me. I have the freedom to control my own time and use it for my own selfish pursuits. Hunting and trapping distracts me from the raids and my ever-decreasing thoughts of home but it does not take the whole day. Exploring the mountains and valleys has become my main pastime. I walk and climb the mountains alone, learning each spur, each slope, each vale, each copse of trees, for forty kilometres around us, all the way down to the eastern shore where the mountains drop straight into the sea. I know where the game hides, where the edible plants are, where the freshest water flows.

When visiting Tonelagee I trek west past Glendalough, an ancient settlement where grey stone buildings still stand despite the abuse of nature and man. The people of old toiled using natural stone, building thick walls that have endured long after the builders turned to dust, glorious in their ancient purpose. Thomas told me some of the buildings were nearly two thousand years old. After that I visit them at least once a week, awed anew each time I pass by. Then I continue eastward along the forested southern shore of the lower lake and up beyond the upper lake. Glendalough means valley of two lakes, and the lakes are spectacular to behold. My route is difficult compared to the road on the northern shore but I remain hidden from the residents and possible drones.

I still mistrust the locals because Connor tells me there are Union supporters everywhere. Many people who speak out against the Union disappear without a trace, sometimes from their beds, always without anyone knowing where or how they disappear, and always after vocalising ideas of sedition or independence. These methods are the same as those used by Snow and his predecessors all those years ago, along with the Games, to keep the people subdued back in Panem. I wonder if Coin is following the same path, and I hate him and the Union even more, every time I walk this route. So I keep walking this way to keep myself focussed on my goals.

The possibility of betrayal means we must present ourselves as a family. I am Connor's wife, Ronan and Isabella our children. Considering our ages the story is plausible. Matteo doesn't venture out much, but we explain he is my nephew from England. Not that the Italians or I speak to the locals often, our accents are a dead giveaway. If we must talk to them we use a few basic greetings and sayings in Irish but always force the conversations to English. We leave the barter with the locals to Connor and Ronan. Thomas spends two or three weeks per month in New Dublin and a week with us, and then we have a few days of travel for the missions. Luckily we always have activity at the house as Mateo and Isabella do not join us on the raids.

In this environment, with all the effort to remain innocuous to spying eyes, we have bonded as a unit, almost as a real family. Connor and Ronan have grown close, as have Isabella and I. Our time in prison was a uniting force for the four of us. This has isolated Matteo and I can understand why he wants to go back to Ireland.

The bond between Isabella and I is stronger than I have experienced with any but a few people. Peeta, Cinna, Gale, Prim, no-one else. Madge? I guess it is like my relationship with Madge. Neither of us would talk that much but there is a strength in having a person present whom you can trust, knowing they are there for you, for the same reasons you are there for them. The two of us share many outings in the surrounding woods, careful to avoid time in the open where drones might detect us. Our routine started to mimic my youth, where I headed through the fence each day to hunt, trap and forage for food. I would use my bow to shoot birds, set and clear traps, snaring rabbits and other small creatures, and forage for edible plants, all for cooking in stews, or roasting over a fire. Isabella has taken to the lifestyle like she had been doing the same in Italy her whole life. She is more like me than my own daughter.

So the news Isabella was leaving with Matteo hurt me the hardest. Matteo was never part of the prison quartet, even though he had been there and helped us escape. Thomas was only using us to locate Farrell, and that at the behest of his wife Siobhan. The two men were welcome to leave. But Isabella! I need Isabella. She is part of my new family. Is this what it is like for parents to watch their children leave home? Would I be fortunate enough to experience this agony one day with my own children?

The relationship with Isabella may have become more complicated now but so have my other relationships. One time, about two months ago, Connor and I were returning from a hunt in the late afternoon. I had been tracking a deer for two weeks and knew I needed help bringing the kill back to the house so I enlisted Connor's aid. We found the large buck, antlers full and majestic, in a forested area to the south-west. After the kill we hung the carcass and butchered it to reduce what we had to carry. I make a habit of using trails to move around but that day, with the load of meat, we used the road. We had enough meat for at least two weeks, especially if Ronan and Connor cured it correctly. The way they dry it makes for great snack food when I am roaming. Plus we would still have meat to trade for other supplies, such as salt. With that thought in mind we were more relaxed than usual, bordering on jovial. On the way back to the house we encountered a group of four talkative villagers returning from Hacketstown, a full day's walk from Laragh. They came up behind us quickly, catching us by surprise, so that we couldn't hide and wait for them to pass.

This was risky for us as too much time with the locals could expose weaknesses in our story. Connor quickly turned any topic to the villagers, asking about their lives and opinions, shrewdly keeping away from past stories and history. I kept quiet, trusting in Connor to handle the situation. He really is a charmer, able to keep people entertained for hours. Ronan once said he had kissed the Blarney Stone, which Thomas laughed at and replied that he would have to hold his breath a long time to kiss the Stone, seeing as it was now under water.

We all stopped for a drink of water at a small stream and, as we sat, one of the villagers, Rory, a short, dark-haired man that Connor said was from Ulster, asked me why I was carrying Connor's bow. "It's mine!" I blurted, incensed at his assumption that a woman could not be a hunter.

"I made it for the little woman just this past month, teaching her to hunt as well. She is nervous but has a good eye, needs to familiarise herself the bow," interjected Connor. His condescending tone grated me but I knew he was covering for me, making sure they saw me as a harmless woman. The other three smirked and smiled to varying degrees but the short man maintained his suspicious visage. "Unusual for a woman to hunt," he replied.

"That is the only way I would want it, she is the perfect woman and wife for me," replied Connor, and leaned across to me to kiss me full on the lips, holding the stolen kiss for a few seconds before easing away from me, our eyes locked, a slight smile on his face. I was in shock but the villagers saw the blush on my face even the instigator appeared satisfied with Connor's answer. I wonder what he would have thought if he knew the blushing was not because Connor kissed me in public but rather because it was our first kiss.

Connor averted a possible issue with the kiss but created another with it too. Since then I regularly think back to it. Why did he kiss me? Was it just to avert attention or was there more to it? His kiss lingered too, longer than he needed to convince them we were a couple. But he hasn't tried to kiss me again and we have not spoken of the moment since. From the first time, when he told me at Aiden's table that I was beautiful, I have known he finds me attractive. So perhaps he does fancy me. That said he knows I am married.

I think back to the moment, at the worst times. He is the first man besides Peeta, and so long ago Gale, and only once or twice at that, that has kissed me. I feel guilty that I did not stop him. Was that because of the shock of it? Did I want to stop it? I can't remember my exact thoughts at the time although I can remember the complete sensation, his gentle lips on mine, the softness of his beard brushing my face, his strong hand holding the nape of my neck, his masculine scent enticing me to respond. I do not need the distraction. How am I supposed to fight or hunt when memories pounce upon me? When we raid a station I cannot think of him, whether he will be safe. I need to focus.

And it is not just the sensation that disturbs me. Although I have been away from Panem for a year, I am still married to Peeta, my caring husband, my partner for nearly thirty years. As some say, and it was Caesar Flickerman first, our love was 'forged in the crucible of the Games'. Anything forged is strong, capable of enduring all kinds of stress. But as the blacksmith back in 12 used to say, even the strongest iron bar can bend under the right stress. Feelings of guilt surge whenever I think of the kiss. I did not initiate it but I did not stop it either. How do I explain to Peeta? That is, if I ever see him again? There is no way to return to Panem. Even if I turn myself in to the Union I would not make it home. Coin would never allow it. Do I move on and forget making it back? Connor is a good man, we work well together. Do I want more with him?

I do know Connor wants more with me than friendship. His efforts have manifested in many forms. He makes items for me, such as the recurve bow I use for hunting; he does small acts for me all the time, like running a steaming and much-needed bath; he makes compliments about my appearance, considering how rough we live I find it hard to believe them though; he also makes an effort to share activities with me.

Two weeks after the kiss Connor said he had something to show me. The next morning we woke earlier than normal and set out in the last hours of a full moon, heading south-east but past where we went hunting for the stag. This was to be a long journey; Connor had food and water in his trail pack. We took the road to Glenmalure, taking care to avoid other people. As the autumn sun began lightening the sky from the east we headed up a switchback path, up one of the highest mountains in Wicklow. The four kilometre hike to the top took longer that the ten kilometre walk to the base of Cloghernagh but the effort was justified when we arrived at the summit shortly before midday.

Despite motivations Connor was right to bring me here. He must have known I climbed to Tonelagee often and thought this would be an adventure for me. Little did he know the reasons I climbed there each week. The vista from Cloghernagh, however, was the most spectacular I have seen with my feet still on solid earth. The day was a clear, crisp autumn day without a cloud in sight, a true rarity for these islands. How Connor knew it would be like this I cannot guess, but it was the perfect day to sit on a mountain and look at the world.

I love standing on peaks. It makes me feel like a bird, flying high over the world, looking down on the creatures and people trapped by gravity, forever stuck on the surface of the planet. It makes me feel like I could go anywhere, and despite my overwhelming fears to the contrary, my hope of reaching Panem are renewed.

As my companion unpacked the food atop a cairn left by unknown pioneers I skirted the summit from the north via the western side to the south, looking out over the mountains of Wicklow, almost to the world's end, or so it seemed. I lingered long on the western side, imagining Panem in the distance. Then Connor called me and we ate quietly together, neither of us needing to break the magic of this place. Even the wind, which blows more often than not in this land, stayed away.

When I went to the eastern side Connor joined me and together we sat, absorbing the panorama. We could see the Irish Sea, and beyond that I realised there was another island, feint on the horizon. When I pointed it out Connor said it was Wales. Then he had to explain that Wales was another country, part of another island across the Irish Sea, and we could see a mountain called Snowdonia.

After that I lost my enthusiasm. That I could see another country but not my own depressed me and I could only think of Panem, of District 12 and my own mountain home, and my family. Poor Connor never understood why my mood back to Laragh was poor, and I could not tell him that his intended gift and special time with me backfired, causing me to raise the barriers around me again that he had slowly pulled down.


	5. Chapter 5

Day 349 - Departure

I think of our time in Laragh as we leave our hiding place high in the Wicklow Mountains, travelling west toward the Bally Bridge. We departed before dawn to avoid prying eyes. Despite the cold we could not afford to have anyone see all six of us leaving together. I look back into the valley, keen to catch a glimpse of something, anything to hold on to, perhaps the lights of the early risers in Laragh, but a fog has descended, veiling the evidence of life. Suddenly a feeling comes over me that I will not be coming back here.

The further we travel the further my mood drops, as if I am leaving my happy place. It is disappointing for me when we cross the Gap as I do not witness the orange of sunrise. I am also dreading the day I have to say goodbye to Isabella. She has become an integral part of my sanity, keeping me from descending into ennui with her constant but quiet energy and strength, and her companionship. But I know I have to let her go. She is not my daughter; she has her own path to follow.

Light dawns as we travel down toward Ballytore. It is a long journey on foot and we need to make the afternoon ferry to Ballylynan; we cannot afford to be delayed in Ballytore. There is a large Garda barracks in Crookstown, a kilometre distant, and the commander schedules his squads to monitor all travellers. Thomas bypasses Kilcullen and leads us down through empty, barren fields that were in late harvest when we first came this way.

Closer to Ballytore we leave the main road and weave through minor roads and paths toward the Bally Bridge landing. We are pushing the pace as it is afternoon and the ferry will leave early to in order to reach the western shore before darkness. Matteo takes Isabella's pack because she is slowing us down. I am very fit, as are the Irishmen with the physical labour and travelling we have been doing. Matteo is pushing hard to maintain the pace as well but insists on helping her.

Relief sweeps over us as we approach the Burtown landing. The ferry is still there! Thomas splits us into groups, Ronan and Isabella, himself and Matteo, Connor and me. Matteo suggests he stay with Isabella but Thomas insists each local pairs with a foreigner. We need to minimise the chance of detection if the Garda stop us for questioning or other travellers engage us in conversation. Thomas has seen posters of the four Rock escapees so we have to be careful. The good thing is that we are squeaky clean in the posters whereas now we are clad in homespun and leather and our grooming is typical of the peasant life we live.

Boarding commences and each pair infiltrates the crowd of roughly forty other travellers, mingling as much as possible. Soon the ferry is loaded and slowly lurches away from the dock, the steam engine chugging and coughing black smoke from the single smoke stack. Connor and I make our way to the front of the ferry to watch for activity on the far shore. On the ferry we are most vulnerable, there is nowhere to escape if a Union helicopter flies over or there is a roadblock on the other side.

Slowly the detail on the far shore becomes clearer. People waiting for the final ferry run have gathered next to the dock, their baggage and goods piled up around them. Then Connor mutters something to himself.

"What?"

He switches to English, "Nothing … well … they are all in a line."

On the dock the people are all in a single line along the deck, except for six uniformed and helmeted people, dark shadows walking along the line, checking each person. At the far end of the dock stand two more shadows, blocking the only path off the platform, weapons drawn and pointed at the travellers. Soldiers!

"Call the others over," I whisper to Connor and start assessing our options. We knew this was going to happen at some stage. At a point in time we would come into conflict with soldiers or the Garda, armed and ready, not sleeping in their barracks or patrolling alone in the dark. We have discussed it at length, how to fight with guerrilla tactics, spreading out to disrupt firing lines, catch the enemy in a crossfire. We practised using the landscape and available cover to mask our positions or movement. Drawing on my District 13 training, as well as my comrades own learning and experience, we devised tactics to suit our small band. Thomas even made us consider situations involving non-combatants. Protecting the people around us had to be a priority.

All that training is useless now. We are concentrated on a ferry without the ability to use cover, unable to move, to flank the soldiers on the dock. And as our ferry arrives at the doc the eight soldiers will be watching us. We have left most of our weapons stashed in the Trinity Church near Dunamase. Between us we carry four pistols, three semi-automatic short-barrel rifles and my bow. Ammunition is limited as well and I have only 6 arrows in a slim sheath. We did not prepare for this. Somehow we never considered arriving at the dock with a patrol inspecting all the travellers.

Thomas and Matteo arrive first, careful not to draw the attention of the others on board. Connor makes a slight gesture with his head toward the dock and Thomas immediately recognises the danger. Ronan steps near having already assessed the situation on the shore. "Plan of action?" he asks, hand under his long coat, reaching for a weapon.

Matteo and Isabella withdraw behind us, suddenly aware of the danger and aware they are out of their depth here. They have always stayed at our base when we raid but seeing the reality of imminent combat is unexpected for them. Matteo puts his arms around Isabella and hugs her tight, trying to comfort her and dispel her fear but I am not sure which of the two is shaking the most.

"Kat, string your bow. Matteo, Isabella, step apart, create a shield so the others don't see her. Ronan, you too." The three obey immediately. Connor and I work well together, instinctively knowing who should take the lead. I work better strategically whereas he comes into his own tactically. It is too late for a strategy now; we are too close to landfall to do anything but act with immediacy.

"The two at the far side are the only ones with weapons drawn, can you hit them before the others know?" he asks me.

I have drawn the bow and string out and am kneeling behind the screen of coats the others have created, stringing the bow and quickly as I can without fumbling. I can hear people moving from aft in anticipation of disembarking; this is going to become messy. The distance for this bow is quite far but I think I can manage it so I nod. Besides, we are closing every second. I think I can surprise the six soldiers searching the passengers but the two targets are facing toward us. The only hope is that in the fading light the arrows will be difficult to detect.

Connor is whispering urgent commands to the others including the Italians. Isabella and Matteo must keep our shipmates away from me, the bow will be easier to see that the guns which will remain under coats until the last possible moment. The three armed men will target the six soldiers, leaving the other two to me. We must use only pistols. Aim carefully and wait to fire together, he commands. He is correct in his approach; if we do this correctly we can clear the soldiers in two volleys. Then we will have to deal with the civilians around us. That cannot concern us now though.

I test the bowstring to ensure it is at the correct tension and then I draw out my six arrows, laying them out on the wooden floorboards in front of me. I nock two arrows. It has been a long time since I fired more than one arrow but the timing of this ambush cannot wait for me to fire one at a time. I twist the bow to a horizontal position even though I will lose some power in the shot. The arrows rest on the stock, slightly separated to have distinct trajectories. My second set of arrows must fly before the first ones strike.

The engines cut out and the ferry lurches at the loss of propulsion. The sudden drop in noise is disconcerting. Will it attract the attention of the helmeted, faceless threat on the dock? I am nervous, as I always am in those seconds before the fighting starts. I draw on the nervousness now and use it to focus, play out my shots in my mind.

"Wait," says Connor, just loud enough for me to hear. The two soldiers have stepped down from the blocks and start walking back away from us. "Ready?" People are starting to pass us, eager to continue their journeys on foot.

"Before the boat stops," I say, knowing sudden movement will spoil my aim. Perspiration drips off my forehead but I cannot wipe it away.

"Thomas, Ronan, on my second mark. Katniss, now!"

My vision tunnels and everything but the two soldiers fades into a circular blur. I rise into my preferred shooting stance, draw back the bowstring, aim at the backs of the two soldiers, and as I release my arrows the thought in my mind is that they could be the death of not just the two soldiers but all of us too.


	6. Chapter 6

Ambush

Without watching the flight I reach down for two more arrows. Standing to fire and leaving the arrows on the floor is a mistake, as I struggle to notch them for the rapid second shot. I drop one, nock the other and look up in time to see one of my arrows strike the soldier on the right in the centre of his back. Everything is continuing as normal, not a person besides our group has noticed the falling soldier who is surely dead from the strike to his spine.

The other arrow misses and I fire the next arrow at the remaining soldier who is turning in surprise at his companion twisting and falling silently backward. I nock a fourth arrow and let it fly at the remaining guard. He turns to shout to his companions but my third arrow hammers into his thigh, stopping him mid-cry. Fortuitously for me he drops to his knees in pain and looks up in time to witness the third arrow moments before it ends his time on this earth, piercing through the fabric of his tunic, puncturing his lung. If he had not dropped I would have struck his leg again. He gurgles a warning to which Connor calmly responds with a single word "Now!" His voice is so calm, almost soothing, in total contrast to the violence I have perpetrated.

The three men draw their pistols and step in front of the passengers closest to the gate. The all take aim and fire in unison, two, three, four times. The shots are so close together that not a scream or shout rings out before the fourth volley. Then pandemonium breaks out on the ferry and the dock simultaneously. A cacophony of voices screaming and shouting, calling out names of loved ones and companions, crying in terror of the unknown, bursts across the waters but it does not disturb my focus. People are fleeing the dock but there is nowhere to run on the confined deck of the ferry. Some passengers leap over the rails into the water, some push aft whilst others duck down to avoid stray bullets, tripping those moving backwards.

I stand again and see past my companions that the six dark-clothed Union soldiers are all down, crumpled in varying contorted shapes. One or two twitch in death but none will survive. Despite the error with my second shot we have culled the Union squad in seconds without a single soldier returning fire. I stand in horror at the death but also in awe of our triumph. The tactics were perfect, the execution thereof precise. It is the perfect execution of eight enemy soldiers. They didn't know what hit them, they didn't have a chance.

In all the mayhem the ferry captain has forgotten to reverse the engines and the ferry rams into the side of the dock, knocking us all off our feet. I grab the rail next to me as Matteo stops Isabella from falling on me. The screeching of the ferry hull against the posts of the dock is deafening, louder than all the human voices around us. Then noise ceases as the ferry yaws and then starts to roll from side to side due to the impact, reducing our ability to regain our feet. Then Connor is calling for us to run and Matteo pulls Isabella and I upright. I step on my last two arrows, retrieve them and join the Italians swaying with the roll of the boat, moving forward to where Ronan is unlatching the gate and ramp.

Matteo halts and surveys the people sprawled across the deck. His medic instincts must be kicking in. His disposition to help them contradicts our orders to leave. The conflict is evident in his staccato movements. He still holds Isabella's hand so I grasp her other hand and nearly wrench her arm out of the joint I pull so hard. She maintains her grip on Matteo and drags him forward too, away from his would-be patients. Then he is running with us, arm around Isabella, helping her move faster.

No-one thinks of apprehending us, they may not even be aware we are responsible for the attack. Their inattention provides precious moments for the six of us to launch from the ferry to the now-empty, tilted dock. Someone is not going to be happy with the damage we have caused. It will take weeks to repair, if not months. We sprint along the unstable walkway toward firm land. Connor slows to rip a rifle off a soldier and the rest of us, except our two pacifists, follow suit. At the top of the dock I try to recover my arrows but none of the ones that struck is useable and I cannot see the one that missed.

Thomas shouts out in Irish, pointing at the Union squad carrier. Connor diverts across to where it stands and we all bundle into the back as he finds the ignition. The deep voice of the engine roars into life and Connor engages the gears too soon, causing the truck to pitch forward suddenly. Then he has it under control, turning away from the scene of devastation behind us, driving toward the town, toward the evening sun that is low on the horizon. The people originally on the dock are scattering across the ground, heading for whatever cover or point of safety they can find. Those running toward the town bound off the road as we rumble past.

I watch the aftermath of the ambush with fascination, seeing people pulled out of the water, some jumping from the damaged ferry and fleeing along the hazardous dock, following our own path away from the calamity. Regret that we have not contained the consequence of the ambush gnaws at me but if the ferry captain had kept his head the only casualties would have been the Union squad. And Thomas would be happy that we harmed no civilians, at least not by shooting them.

Then I see the horror on Isabella's face, her eyes wide and wild, totally unprepared for the reality of war. What did she do back in Italy that caused her imprisonment here in the first place? It hits home how violent war is and how easily I accept it. I remember my words to Haymitch "_No-one good every wins the Games_", to which he replied "_No-one ever wins the Games_". He was right; the violence robs us of our innocence, sometimes in small pieces and sometimes in large chunks. I realise I am the former and Isabella the latter. Her innocence has been ripped from her, stolen in a single event that will haunt her dreams, waking her in the night with images of corpses and death swirling around her. I see the wedge it has instantly driven between us as she stares at me, appalled that I could do this. Well, I refuse to stand placidly accepting my fate. What did she think we did when we went raiding anyway?


	7. Chapter 7

Day 351 - Parting

Although some of the others feel uneasy with boat travel I love it. The first boat I ever boarded was here in Ireland, as we escaped from The Rock. The tension of escape totally overwhelmed any feelings for or even recognition of a new experience but subsequently I have come to marvel how a boat can float and love the movement, whether the water is smooth, flowing or choppy. Travel between the islands of the archipelago necessitates the use of boats and despite my depressed state of mind I feel a lift as we launch and navigate down the inlet between hilltops that once arose high above a now-submerged valley floor. Of course, the last voyage we made, on the ferry from Leinster Island, ended badly.

The one part of sailing I do not yet feel comfortable with is losing sight of land. In my mind, if I can see the land I can swim to it. Thomas was quick to point out that currents in the water could whip you away from land far quicker than a person could swim against it. "Never swim against the current", he warned. This is especially true with the waterways that flow between the islands, such as Carlow Sound. He was also adamant that the waters were too cold to swim in for an extended period, that hypothermia would kill you long before you reached shore.

The dour mood of our group has persisted since we fled Ballylynan two nights ago and I am grateful but guilty for the enjoyment I now feel. The events at Ballylynan broke us as a team. On one side Connor, Ronan and I wanted to cheer our success. We sprung a trap, fought against the Union in daylight and won. Yes, there were unwanted injuries and damage to the ferry and dock, but the story will spread across the islands. On the other side are Matteo, Isabella, traumatised, and disagreeing that the result was good, despite the knowledge that capture or death awaited us if discovered.

The one who caught me by surprise is Thomas, who was furious after the ambush. He was leaving us but now the ambush has implicated him. People will definitely recognise some of us from the 'wanted' posters. As far as the Union was concerned Thomas was a ghost until now. Now there is a chance of recognition and the Union will come for him and his family. Despite Connor's suggestions that he and Siobhan join us he decided to follow through with his decision and return to New Dublin.

We abandoned the truck in a ditch just short of Portlaoise and then backtracked to Dunamase, to the grey stone Trinity Church that stands near the ruins of an ancient castle. Although the Church is abandoned now it still provides ample cover and refuge for us. The hollow in which it stands forms a natural barrier against detection from most directions. Although Churches are supposed to be places of peace and worship there were heated words. Isabella sat almost comatose on warped wooden pew, staring at the crucifix hanging skew on the far wall of the sanctuary. The rest of us remained in the nave near the door, arguing the impact of the event. Many emotions flowed between us. Fear, shock, anger, sorrow, elation, all contradicted one another and only twisted our feelings more.

The result was an agreement that our group would split, that we would all separate as per our previous arrangements, but that we would not distribute the supplies we had hidden at the Church. The last acts of our group would be escaping the area undetected, escorting Thomas to New Dublin and then taking Matteo and Isabella to Wexford Island. From there Connor and Ronan would accompany me to Cork to see if there were any signs of Farrell, Aiden, Ailin and Shar, who were still missing.

I make my way forward to where Isabella sits. We have a full day of sailing to reach Wexford Island, the launch place for many clandestine sorties to the European mainland and England. I am not sure what I will say, if anything, but I want to be with her on this last voyage together. She has not spoken a word to me since Ballylynan. She is looking out in front of the boat, searching for underwater dangers such as rocks and ground just below the surface of the water. We all take turns at this critical task. Navigation is still hazardous as the skippers have not properly recorded all underwater landmasses and rock formations. Many boats and launches have run aground or struck outcrops.

Finally, after half an hour of us sitting quietly together I reach out and take her hand. She doesn't pull away so I stretch and give her a hug.

"Thank you," I whisper, squeezing her with all the gratitude I can muster.

Isabella is surprised at my words, possibly the last thing she thought I would say to her. She pulls back from me to look in my eyes. "What for?" she asks.

The answer to the question is so vast I wonder how to answer. The last year flashes through my mind and I pause, thinking of where to start.

"When I first arrived at the Rock, when I had lost my friend, I was alone. There was no one I knew I the prison…"  
"You were with Connor…" she suggests.

"Yes, yes I met him before the prison, but I only met him a few days before and I didn't know him at all. Besides, he was in hospital. I was a foreigner in the prison, the first one there. People were wary of me, not sure if I worked for the Union. It was difficult." I pause again. I have not thought much about this in the last six months. The emotion, long hidden, threatens to burst out, but I fight being overwhelmed. I need to control myself.

"The women in the prison, they had a clique that I was never part of. Then you came and you became my friend. It helped that you were another foreigner but more importantly everyone accepted you so easily. You have a way with people. It reminds me of something someone said about me long ago, when I was younger, younger even than you. I wondered if I had such an influence on people why it didn't work here. Your friendship saved me and made the time on the Rock bearable. I did not realise it at the time."

She shakes her head but I nod in response. "You became my best friend there. I saw you as weaker because of your age. No, not weaker, naïve maybe, or innocent. The time we spent together reminded me of my daughter, who was so similar. She is strong for her years and she is my friend too."

"Is she your best friend, back there in your country?"

"Yes, she is. Her name is Jewel. I love her so much … I am not good at friendship. I don't know if I ever had a real female friend before you, and even with you I made you out to be my daughter. It's like I always twist the friendship so that I maintain dominance. My first friend, yes she was a friend, Madge, we never spoke much. We fell together because we were both outsiders, we didn't fit in. I thought she didn't like me, just paired with me for the same reason I paired with her – to not be alone."

"That is a real reason for friendship, not the only one but it is real. We all reach for companionship," she offers.

I smile, "I am learning that, even at my age we can learn. There was another, Johanna. I do not see her enough. Seeing each other reminded us of our experiences together in the rebellion. She was tortured, went through so much. She needed me as much as I needed her but I couldn't see that, couldn't give of myself. I felt they had taken so much from me, making me a symbol, I felt I could ignore them all, they could find support somewhere else."

"How long ago did you see Johanna?"

"Well, I don't know. Maybe a year," I laugh and she laughs with me when she realises what my joke means. For a moment we are back in Laragh, stress-free, and then I feel the sea breeze, smell the sea-salt carried off the choppy water, and know she will still be leaving.

"I am lucky you came to the prison, I may have given up. And besides, if you hadn't escaped with us I would have been stuck on my own with the boys." We look over to where the three men lounge on bales and sacks.

She concurs, "The house would have been chaos, and the cooking bad."

"I think that is an Irish issue, not a male one." The men look over at us, wondering what the laughter is about.

I notice Matteo's attention is directed toward Isabella and there is a softness in his gaze. Then a number of small, inconspicuous, individually meaningless incidents roll up to paint a picture for me. I see Matteo sitting next to Isabella at the table, helping her clean, carrying her pack, suggesting he stay with her on the ferry, protecting her at the ambush. Sometimes events happen in front of your eyes but if you are not looking for them they are indistinct from the general noise.

"He is a good man," I say softly.

Isabella waits, not sure quite what I have said, hoping her secret has not been discovered. They have made an extraordinary effort to hide the relationship and I can understand why. With a cell like ours having intimacy between members can cause a break in the group's trust. A little like Thomas's revelation that he was only with us to find Farrell. You start to question a person's commitment and motivation.

"He sees the Union the same way I do, as well as what we want to do," she replies.

"It isn't all about how you see the world."

"No, it isn't. You are right, he is a good man. We are going to his home town. I am to meet his family. Family is most important in Italy. Everything revolves around the family. I am scared to see my own because I do not know if they will approve," she confides.

"You are both brave, it will work out. I am sure," I say, trying to assuage her fears and firmly believing my own words.

"Come on my treasures, it's time for a bite," calls Connor, breaking our tete-a-tete.

We help each other rise from the bales we sit on and meander to where the three men sit. Isabella stands over Matteo, leans down and passionately kisses him, knowing that revelation now means nothing to our group's stability. I am sure it is a weight off her mind.

Connor and Ronan stare in surprise then look over at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders and give an enigmatic smile before stepping in to help dish out the bread and gammon.


	8. Chapter 8

Day 352 - Drowning

The boat moves in ways I have never felt before. I don't care what they call it, yawing, rolling, pitching, it is all sickening. The rain pelts the window of the cabin with giant drops of water that could each fill a bucket. The tiny lamp running on the salt battery provides the only light holding back the dark besides the lightning that flashes every few seconds. Except this is no ordinary lightning. It crashes down in yellow sheets of fire, burning the white tips of the waves to black. Those black waves rear up and smash down on the boat like shovelfuls of dirt thrown into a grave, throwing up clouds of dust. Despite the onslaught the boat resistance continues. That the bobbing boat hasn't capsized is miraculous, Isabella's God must be watching over us. I brace against the bulwark and hold Isabella tight so that she doesn't fall to the floor. I somehow feel that if she is on the floor I will lose her. Then a wave smashes through the window and sweeps us both out of the frail door that a second ago kept the elements at bay. I grab a railing and Isabella and she hooks an arm it as well. I notice that it is curiously ornate, gold with intricate carvings of birds. Mockingjays! The rail is made of mockingjays! Then another wave lifts me up and away from the rail and hurls me into the salty water that heaves and surges around me. I am suddenly wet. Why wasn't I wet before? I see the boat soar over the waves into the distance, leaving me to float alone for a moment until another wave swarms over me, crushing me under its full weight. I pop to the surface, coughing and gasping for air. I cannot see the boat when the flame-lightning flashes next and there is no sight of land. Where do I swim to? Suddenly something brushes against my leg and I see a long, lithe creature slither through the water away from me. It turns and comes at me again. I see its face and it is the face of Jason Coin, teeth bared and eyes gleaming. His mouth gapes open wide enough to swallow me whole and I scream.

And I scream aloud, sitting up in bed. My shirt is soaked through from perspiration, almost like I was swimming in the sea. The room and bed are unfamiliar, I am totally disoriented. The door swings open, cracking against the wall, hinges creaking from opening too wide and too fast. Connor is in the doorway, a candle lamp in his left hand, a hunting knife in the other.

"You alright?" he asks, glancing around the room looking for any threats, in-between looking at me with genuine concern for my well-being.

Realisation of what has happened seeps into me. I have had a bad nightmare. My screams have woken up Connor and possibly others in the house. He has come bursting into my room expecting an attack. We are, after all, a group of wanted people. We live in constant danger of discovery, capture, torture and imprisonment, at best. "Nothing new", is what I want to say but realise that this is the first nightmare I have had in a long time. In fact, I have not had a nightmare since I left home. Peeta would know what to do to calm me; Peeta has done so a thousand times. Connor has not seen this before though. No wonder he is concerned. He came rushing. No wonder he is standing in his sleep shorts and nothing else.

"You are exposed," I say, nodding toward his midriff and below. He looks down, suddenly aware of his near-nakedness.

Without concern for his appearance he moves to the pack of clothes I have strewn across the table. He selects a shirt and moves to my bedside. "Here, this one is dry, get that one off before you catch a cold … from exposure," he says. He holds it up for me and I snatch it from him, suddenly aware that my wet shirt exposes my breasts to him. "Turn around," I instruct and he does so without hesitation, looking away so that I can change my shirt. When I am done he takes the wet shirt and spreads it over the back of a chair in the corner of the small room.

He sits next to me, setting his blade and lamp down before taking my hand in his.

"Are you alright?" he asks again, still ignoring his state of undress.

"Yes. Yes, it was just a nightmare," I reply, aware immediately that from his perspective it cannot be 'just a nightmare'.

"What happened?"

What happened? '_Where do I start_?' is my first thought. Then I decide to keep it to myself, no need to worry my companions. I need to stay strong, keep their trust in me. "Just worried about Isabella sailing off today, now I am the only woman," I offer, trying to evade the question, but I can see he doesn't believe me. He sits quietly, knowing there is something else on my mind. He and I have been through a lot together, so I decide to confide in him.

"That was the first nightmare I have had for more than a year," I say, struggling with the fact. Why did I have a nightmare now? And why didn't I have one before? After all I have been through this last year I would have expected my nightmares to continue. "I used to have nightmares regularly, first after the Hunger Games, but more so after the rebellion. For years they haunted me, dragging me through the graveyards of my past before providing relief by hauling me out of sleep. Explaining to my children that I was OK was difficult, but nowhere near as difficult as convincing myself that the nightmares weren't true."

"What triggered this one?" Connor asks.

"I think losing Isabella, worrying about her safety, scared that I have caused her harm."

"You helped her escape and find a path home… maybe you are worried about you making it home…"

That had not occurred to me but perhaps Isabella's escape from Ireland on the boat has raised subconscious feelings within me of jealousy, of loss, of diminishing hope that I will ever find a way home. The trip to Europe is short and in busy waters so there should be little chance of detection. Sailing to Panem, on the other hand, is certainly a voyage straight into the jaws of the Union and Coin. There is no way I can sail home.

Connor rises, leans over and kisses the top of my head, then turns to leave.

"Connor..." he stops at my whisper, "Will you stay with me?"

After what seems an age but is in fact a second or two he shakes his head. My heart sinks. What have I done? What will he think of me? I can only hope he doesn't tell the others, that I invited him into my bed. They won't understand that I didn't want him, that I just needed someone to hold me, to help me dispel the nightmares.

"Your bed is still wet, come with me," he says. I jump out of bed, relieved that I was wrong. We walk to his room, down the corridor past Ronan's room. I tiptoe, desperate to avoid detection, hoping that none of the wooden floorboards creaks. I will have to wake early to return to my room. We slip into the cramped room that Connor is using in the safe house and slip into the bed that takes up most of the floor space. I place my head on Connor's chest, slip my arm over his torso and immediately drop into a sleep devoid of hallucinations and visions.


	9. Chapter 9

Day 357 – Millstreet

The mood was low as we sailed away from Wexford Island across to Leinster Island, landing near Mahon Bridge. Although our destination is Cork, another one hundred kilometres down the coastline, the captain won't take us any closer. The risks were too high for him he said, and I couldn't say he was wrong. So we had to walk to Cork, a distance of nearly two hundred kilometres as we needed to loop west, south and then back east along a finger of land to the site of the old airport.

The area west of Mahon Bridge did suit us due to a number of fresh water sources and folded mountains that helped to hide us. We hunted for food as we travelled and found shelter with dissidents that live along the mountain ranges that stretch east the west. There were also decent roads and paths leading along the base of the mountain range. We avoided the mountains themselves as the snow of winter had cloaked them, making them unattractive for many reasons, not least of which was the cold. The negative to disembarking at Mahon Bridge was that it would take an extra week to reach our destination. A week of travelling is always risky due to drones, spies and Union forces. At least we knew they were looking for a group of five and we are just three.

Since the ambush at Ballylynan Union activity has soared. There are posters of us everywhere and Union patrols are stopping travellers everywhere. The only good I can take from the posters is that there are only five. The Union has not identified Thomas as one of our group. At least, that is what I hope. Perhaps they know he is one of us but do not need a poster to find him. I can only hope that isn't the case. The other two are far away and I doubt the soldiers will be searching in Europe, not expecting them to head back to their homeland.

First Thomas left and the five of us that escaped the Rock moved south and then sailed to Wexford Island. With Isabella and Matteo gone we are now a team of just three – Ronan, Connor and me. With such a small team it will be difficult to attack the Union at all. We will need new recruits but first we need to try to retrace Farrell's steps and for that we need to go back to Cork Airport, or at least the shell of what was once Cork Airport.

After five days of travel we are tired and have started using roads wherever possible. Sometimes we hide in the hedges near roads when we hear other travellers or sleep during the day and travel at night to avoid detection. We still have two to three days to go when, in the afternoon on a grey and wet day we approach a small town called Millstreet. The old road signs that stand alongside the cracked road need replacing and I wonder if the Union spends any money repairing anything here in Ireland.

Ronan leads us down a narrow lane, hedges protecting us from view on both sides. We haven't had to leave the road for over two hours since we bypassed Dromagh so we have made good time. Connor says that we may have a roof over our heads and a hearth to warm us if we can make Knockraheen before nightfall. If we arrive after dark there is no guarantee his friend will open the door. The thoughts of soup and stew, perhaps a bath, straw beds, a fire, spur us southward.

Millstreet comes into view, a scattered gathering of houses hidden amongst trees and hedges. Towns harbour many treats to our safety so we spread out, Ronan about a hundred metres ahead of me and Connor the same distance behind. One person may not be as suspicious as a group. We stroll down the road but can see no one else. People definitely occupy the houses but the doors are all closed and only the occasional animal sound breaks the quiet. A dog barks at Ronan as he passes by five ramshackle row houses. A long wall stops the small terrier from making more of a nuisance. Further along some chickens roam the sidewalks searching for food and a donkey brays from behind a house to the east.

Ronan stops at a corner junction a kilometre into the town and eases up against a wall near a tree, hidden from view in all three directions. I join him and wait for Connor.

"There's something not quite right with this place, I haven't seen a soul," reports Ronan when we are all together.

"Perhaps they are all at a town meeting near the parish building. Best to bypass it I think," answers Connor. "In the meantime let's swap places. I will go first, then Katniss and Ronan."

"No need to place me in the middle, I can look after myself!" What does he think? That I need protection?

"Katniss, you're in the middle because you can cover both of us with your bow. String it up. Besides, you still don't have a good Irish accent. We must close up, maximum thirty metres apart. We have half a kilometre to the south road, then we can use the Macroon Road instead of the main road, it will be safer."

I pull my bow from under my coat and rapidly string it, then swing the quiver so that the arrows face forward from under my arm. Although drawing the arrows out from this position is not as smooth and fast, I cannot have arrows sticking out the back of my coat. I ensure the arrows are not jammed before nodding to Connor who starts down the street toward the centre of the town.

After a slow walk of three hundred metres, keeping to the sides of the road, Connor reaches a side street. He motions to his left and then slips off the main road that runs toward the square. When I reach the intersection I stop and listen. Further up the road I see a group of people walking away from us. They are gradually disappearing from view as they move down from the crest near the square. I hide between a wall and a leafy tree, wanting to see what is happening. There is slight sound behind me and I turn to see Ronan, who has come up to my position. I gesture up the road but when I look again the group is gone, obscured by the hill.

Without a word I head up the side street where there is no sign of Connor. He has turned the corner and I need to close the gap again. I walk rapidly around the corner and re-establish the 30 metre gap we are supposed to maintain. We progress without incident along the narrow street with houses on the right and an open area on the left until the next corner.

Connor reaches the T-junction and stops at the gate of a house on the right, checking both left and right for any threats. I pause, waiting for him to move. He crosses the street and turns left, moving out of view, so I follow to the gate where he stopped. As I reach the corner I can see Connor walking across the road to an old stone wall, speckled grey with time. Patches of white mould and green moss add character to the wall. A church stands behind the wall, a broken clock near the top of the square tower evidence of decades-long neglect. Ronan has stopped a few metres back from my position but across the street, looking toward the blind spot on my right.

Connor passes a red gate in the church wall as he watches the windows of the row houses on the left of the street. Suddenly the gate opens and two soldiers step out, turning toward me. I backpedal toward Ronan, hoping they have not seen me. The second soldier pulls the gate closed and his peripheral vision catches sight of Connor walking away from him up the hill.

"Oi!" he shouts out. Both soldiers are facing Connor, who turns in surprise but manages to keep his handgun under his coat. I stop when I can just see the one soldier, the other hidden by the building. Ronan advances to my level and I signal two soldiers to the left. My bow has an arrow nocked although I cannot remember doing it. Ronan moves toward the corner, pistol drawn. Are there any other soldiers or Garda? The junction is a staggered one; they could be just around the corner. We need to remain silent, not create any sound that would draw more enemies to our location. This is going to up to me and my bow. I edge forward again.

The one soldier has removed his black helmet to reveal white-blond hair and pink-white skin. He is very tall, at least two metres. He addresses Connor in perfect, crisp English. "Where are you going? Everyone is supposed to attend the flogging."

Flogging? I have seen one of those before. With Haymitch and Peeta we saved Gale. Well, saved him from further strokes of the lash. By the time we reached the position he had already passed out. The thought causes my cheek to twitch. I remember the agony of a single lash to my cheek, remember thinking of the pain Gale must have endured. And sitting with him through the night as my mother's remedies worked their healing magic. Flogging! The Union is the same as those we fought against and I hate them even more.

"I am not from here, I am passing through," says Connor as demurely as possible.

"Where are you headed?" demands the soldier.

"A small holding near Macroom a cousin of mine owns. I'm hoping for some food and lodgings for some turning work. It has been a poor winter for me. The family farm didn't produce enough food for us all, so I have moved away 'til the summer," Connor offers, trying to sound conversational.

While he talks and distracts the two soldiers I step forward with my bow raised. A shot in the back may seem cowardly but there is more at stake than honour. I decide to shoot the helmeted one first. The tall blond will have to drop his helmet to draw his weapon, which will give me time for my second shot. I aim at the point just below the helmet when Connor's eyes flick to my position. The tall soldier sees the movement and rotates to see what took Connor's attention. My aim switches to him immediately and I lose my arrow, taking him in the chest and knocking him to the ground. The strike is debilitating but not a clean death. We will have to finish him off.

The second soldier reacts slowly. His elbow is resting on the bolt of his rifle and as he tries to grab the trigger his hand clips the shoulder-strap, knocking the strap off his shoulder. The rifle falls and he bends over to pick it up. The movement throws my aim. I cannot shoot! If I miss I may hit Connor. The soldier has managed to grab his rifle and fumbles at the safety. He starts to raise the weapon in my direction but Connor's arm wraps around his neck and the soldier spasms as Connor's knife pierces his back, plunging deep between the ribs into the chest cavity. He holds the body as it shudders with its last breath. I haven't moved from my position but Ronan has. He is kneeling over my victim, checking to see if he is alive. Then his knife ends the man's agony. Since Connor's last words no-one has made a sound. Neither of the two soldiers cried out or screamed. They were brave men to the end. Pity they were on the wrong side.

My companions drag the two bodies back into the church grounds and close the gate, drawing imaginary lines from their foreheads to the middle of their chests and from shoulder to shoulder. I don't think their religion allows for leaving dead bodies on holy ground. I realise that since I shot the first soldier I have not moved. I stand fixed in the middle of the junction, images of Gale being whipped flashing before me. His groans are palpable despite the years and distance. I can see the strips of skin that Thread flayed from his naked back, that Prim and my mother worked so hard to heal.

"We need to stop it," I say.

"Stop what?" asks Ronan as Connor answers "No".

"Yes, we have to do something," I insist.

"We don't know where it is, how many soldiers, it is too risky," says Connor. He is right, of course, but I cannot clear the images so I turn right and walk north toward the square. The others follow with Ronan asking Connor what is happening. Connor is cursing me and trying to explain to Ronan at the same time so I jog toward the square, which is empty when I reach it.

"Where would they be?" I ask.

"Katniss, it is too risky. There is an arena about half a kilometre north. There is a sports field they may be using. We really shouldn't be doing this. We need to go to Cork! What about Farrell?"

His resolve is wavering. I know he won't say no to me but it will take too long to change his mind. Someone could be suffering. People have died from whipping, we cannot wait. How do I force him to decide faster?

Then Ronan is jogging toward the square. "This way," he calls over his shoulder. I break into a run to catch and hear a curse before heavy, rapid steps beat a rhythm behind me and I know Connor is following. _Thank you Ronan_, I think, as we all swing east through the square. The two of us close the space to Ronan. He must have eased up to allow us to; he is much fitter than us.

"We do this my way," Connor says, as he catches up to me.

"Like that ever happens," chips in Ronan, grinning.

We run, guessing that everyone is at the public flogging of a person who may have resisted the Union but more than likely stole some food or looked at a soldier the wrong way. The town's main street is narrow. Blue, yellow and cream double storey row houses face directly onto it so that there is only space for a narrow footpath on each side of the road. Not that many private motor cars operate. The only vehicles that work in Ireland are Union vehicles, the occasional sympathisers' vehicle, or carts drawn by animals. Aiden's truck was an exception and only because he hid it carefully from Union drones and patrols. Many of the houses have shops on the ground floor, many of which have empty shelves in the windows. The facades all need a coat of paint and the shop signs invariably have letters missing.

Connor sends Ronan ahead toward the arena to scout the area. One hundred metres from the corner a ramp doubles back upward to higher ground. There are also concrete stairs that provide a route up to the left. The stairs must be where the people went. The ornamental metal double gate at the base of the stairs is open. Only one of the gates still hangs on hinges and the rusted rails up the centre of the stairs are unusable from all the rust. Ronan bounds back down the stairs, taking three or four at a time.

"They are all on the football field," he says and I marvel how he isn't out of breath like the two of us.

"Let's loop around, approach from the west," suggests Connor. He sends a dark look that tells me not to argue with him so I nod, even though it means more running. We double back to the main road and continue west about two hundred metres through the ghost town. The lack of people triggers a thought of District 12, empty of all life when District 13 flew me there by hovercraft after the second Games.

We reach an even narrower lane and turn right into it, passing a funeral home on the right. I silently send a wish out that we will not need their services after this. At the end of the lane we see the sports field and the villagers gathered in a crowd, all facing toward us. There is a row of trees with a wall, a metre and a half high, that provide cover for us and we quickly duck down.

We huddle together and Ronan keeps watch behind us whilst Connor and I assess our position and catch our breath, taking in large gulps of air between words. Between our position and the field is a paved area that slopes away to the right, with two Union vehicles parked off to the left, near the entrance at the top of the lane we have come in by. Six soldiers stand guard, weapons drawn and facing the crowd gathered on the grass. Another, by the insignia on his uniform the officer, is talking over a loudhailer to the crowd as he stands over a man on his knees. Could we be lucky again? A surprise attack! Fast firing could drop the six guards. That is two each. Then we deal with the officer. I am nervous though. We have been lucky three times now. The last raid, the ambush and the two soldiers back by the church. Everything has run smoothly for us, surely at some stage we will hit a snag. No, we plan well and we work well as a team. We trust each other, each confident that the others are committed and will play their part. My father taught me when he first took me hunting that you make your own luck by planning and acting correctly.

The weather is grey and cold, with rain in the air. The townsfolk stand in huddles, children with parents, friends with those closest to them. The wind has picked up and is blowing from the south, from behind us. It prevents us from hearing everything that is being said by the officer but by his aggressive gestures the wretched person on his knees, hands tied behind his back, grey hair oily and unwashed, ragged clothing fitting poorly on his cowed frame, has broken laws and is being used as an example of what happens when a person defies the Union.

Connor starts to whisper plans to us, directing an attack similar to the ambush at Ballylynan except that there is no way to use arrows as the initial strike. The trees that provide cover for us will also hamper any projectile except bullets. I am disappointed as I prefer the bow. A gun seems unfair sometimes, nowhere near as elegant. It also feels like killing when I use a gun. With a bow it is more like hunting. It makes me feel like I have given the others a chance. I know, however, that Connor is correct and also that there is more at stake.

I move left, back toward the gate, to cover two of the three soldiers closest to the trucks. Ronan edges a few metres right to target two soldiers on the right. Connor remains in the centre to handle the toughest task. His two soldiers are split left and right of the officer. We must take out the six soldiers and then advance to the officer. Connor wants him alive so that he can provide information of other soldiers and Garda in the area, as well as supply information. I am on the left and must enter the paved area through the gate near the trucks because the wall is too high for me. The other two will vault the wall and attack the officer directly.

My senses are all on edge. I can feel my skin tingling from the cold wind, my sense of smell can detect the pungent fragrance of the evergreens in front of me, I can detect the distinct rustling of the leaves of each tree in front of me, the steel pistol in my hand is drawing heat from my hand despite part of the handle having a wooden grip. Most of all I taste the dryness of my mouth from the running and nervousness.

My heart is racing as I wait for Connor to signal. I have taken a position where I can see both my targets. I glance at Connor, waiting. I expect the signal but at the same time I know I will still start when his hand drops. Then a crack from the direction of the officer breaks my concentration. He has landed his first lash on the prisoner. It takes all my control to not turn and fire, to wait for Connor. The officer must suffer. I will not kill him as Connor wants him alive but that doesn't mean he won't feel what it is like to be whipped. Anger boils up inside. Come on, Connor!

Then Connor has his position and drops his hand. One, two, three, for, five! We fire simultaneously, a volley of three shots blast through the trees, striking soldiers. The two I can see cavort in a dance of death. I know my first round hit my target in the neck from the spray of blood. Connor's first target spins to face in our direction, the bullet has hammered him in the shoulder. I fire a second time at my first victim and he crumples. Then I fire twice rapidly at my other victim before he has realised where the shots are coming from, dropping him to the ground lifeless.

I run toward the gate to block escape for the officer and capture him. The plan has worked perfectly so far, now to finish the mission and free the prisoner. As I turn into the entrance I see my companions leap the wall and break through the trees. Then I hear automatic gunfire blast from a few metres in front of me. Two undetected soldiers, one helmeted and the other not, are shooting at Connor and Ronan. I hear the bullets rip through the trees as the both dive back toward cover. The trees shatter, splinters spraying over the two bodies desperately seeking cover. A branch cracks and falls over the spot where Connor is prone.

Neither of the soldiers has seen me despite my momentum carrying me to within three metres of their position. I raise my pistol and fire point-blank at the nearest one, killing him instantly as the bullet punctures his temple. The noise of the last soldier's own weapon masks my single shot and he doesn't know I am next to him. The next bullet shatters his helmet and he drops lifeless to the ground but he continues firing for two seconds before his trigger finger releases pressure.

I dodge left and check the two trucks for any more soldiers, drivers perhaps, but they are clear. Then I turn to my intended target, the man with the whip, but he is gone, swamped by a crowd of civilians. All I can see is arms rising and slamming down. Only then do I realise many people running and screaming. Their screams drown out any sounds the officer may be making. Surprisingly a large number of the crowd are surging forward rather than away. So much for keeping him alive, I think, but I am glad for it. He deserved no mercy.

Ronan crawls out from under the trees and pulls the branch off Connor. They walk across the open space, weapons up and pointing toward the crowd. Slowly the rise and walk toward me, brushing wood chips and splinters off their clothing and from their hair. Relief sweeps over me as I realise they are unharmed. The sight of them diving for cover is a unique and scary experience. Up until now we have planned every attack thoroughly. This is the first time soldiers have returned fire. Even the ambush was over in seconds. The thought of losing another companion is like a slap.

What would I do if one of them had been injured, or worse, died? We are here because of me, because I wanted to stop the flogging. I selfishly put the men at risk. I didn't think of Connor's bigger picture, I just wanted the gratification of a successful attack. Thomas was right. I want revenge; I don't care about anything else. The realisation, though, is hard to deal with right now, so I bury it within the cobwebs of my conscience.

Connor and Ronan have reached my position and I give each of them a hug, asking them if they are OK and checking them over for wounds. To my relief they are both unharmed. We stand together for a few seconds, grateful to be alive. Then we turn back to the villagers watching us. The prisoner has been untied but is still on his knees on the damp turf at the edge of the field, too dazed to stand.

The remaining crowd are silent, not quite sure what to do or say. They must have mixed emotions. Some will definitely be thinking of the repercussions of an attack like this. The Union will not take the loss of nine, no eleven, soldiers, lightly. Recriminations will fall on those responsible or, if they cannot identify the perpetrators, then the innocent villagers will bear the brunt of the reaction. On the other hand, considering the ferocity with which they attacked the officer, there must be a feeling of victory that we slaughtered the squad, that we freed them, albeit temporarily, from the brutal punishment that this officer obviously enjoyed doling out.

I walk across to the prisoner who is in obvious pain from the single lash he received. "Are you OK?" I ask, kneeling next to him, almost placing my hand on his back in sympathy before pulling back to avoid touching the stripe of skin where blood is oozing out. When the only answer he can manage is a pained nod I stand and look for anyone that may be a leader.

"What happened here? Why was this man being lashed? Can someone give him a shirt?" I ask loudly. As I scan the crowd they all avert their gaze until one old woman draws my attention. Her over-washed clothes are faded and thinning, wisps of white hair peak out from under a headscarf. She is staring at me, squinting in a way that has etched deep wrinkles around her eyes through many years, assessing me with a bravery only the aged can muster.

"A bhfuil tú?" She asks, ignoring my questions and staring me down. I stare back, admiring the zest of this woman, but I remain silent. She shifts her gaze to Connor and Sean behind me, then speaks again, "Who ye?"

"You have seen the posters, I am sure. Do we need introduction?" The forty people in front of me murmur, some at my words but certainly some at my accent. Even after a year in Ireland I do not sound like the locals. Connor says my accent is as stubborn as I am.

The old lady laughs aloud, relieving the tension. "Finn, best you speak to her whilst the rest of us clean up this mess. We cannot have the Garda finding the bodies here. Give the man your jacket."

Finn, obviously a man of some respect in the village, steps forward from the crowd, his hands bloody from his efforts with the officer. "We know who you are. We are glad you came, we couldn't fight without weapons."

Others are moving away to the soldiers we killed, taking weapons and hoisting the bodies up and into the rear of the two trucks.

"You will have to hide the trucks away from here when you leave," he continues. His straight brown hair waves in the wind, briefly covering his green eyes so that he has to brush it back. His attitude is nonchalant. They must have seen a good deal of violence. When I first stood before them I thought the violence had shocked them. Now I realise they didn't know how to react to us, three people who eliminating eight soldiers in seconds. They want us to leave immediately; there will be no hospitality in this town.

"We'll take the trucks and bodies, but we need supplies first," says Connor from behind me.

"We have little and nothing to spare," says Finn.

I step toward him, furious that this man will not help us, but Connor interjects before I can explode. I can see he feels the same way that I do but I doubt he wants conflict with other Irishmen.

"Is there a Garda station here?"

"Aye, over on the Church Road just past the old church. You can't miss it; it's the only new building there."

"Well, thanks at least for that," Connor says and I hear, almost feel, the sarcasm.

The man who was being flayed has approached us, "There are three more prisoners at the station." I look across to Connor. No words needed. There will be one more rescue for the day.

"Show us," Connor instructs and the man follows him without a word.

The crowd have carried the bloody corpse of the officer to the trucks and added it to the eight others. With that they start to disperse, moving back to their normal lives. They do not even realise this is not normal. I shudder to think how immune they have become to death, then suddenly realise I am the same. Eleven men are dead and I feel nothing for them, for the families that will never see their loved ones again. I remember that the Union helped Coin and keeps me from my own family. If I cannot be with my family then why should they?

Finn stands watching us, alone of all the villagers. They have assumed we can drive the trucks. Ronan cannot drive but Connor and I can. One truck each. I am not driving on my own, Ronan will have to ride with me. As if reading my thoughts Ronan move to the closest truck and beckons for Connor to take the far one.

As Ronan reaches the door I have a thought. "Finn, are there any Garda at the barracks?"

"Aye," he reluctantly replies.

"How many?" I ask icily. He was happy for us to walk into the station and possibly be killed or captured. That would be convenient for the villagers. It would provide the Union with perpetrators and the villagers would be free of any suspicion of complicity. Trust no-one. That is the only creed that rings true in times of war. "How many?" I repeat when Finn remains quiet.

"At least three," is the answer.

Ronan is next to me and whispers, "He doesn't know of the other two."

I nod. One then, but maybe more.

The engines roar into life and one by one we turn and exit the grounds, Connor first. As I follow I see Finn in the side mirror, unmoving as we hopefully leave his village and life forever. Before we go, though, we have more business to attend to.

The engines are loud. The noise will alert any occupants of the Garda station of our approach. Ronan reloads his pistols and then does the same for mine. We need to be ready for immediate action. How will we attack, we have no idea of the layout of the building, the access points. This attack is completely different to our previous raids, where we planned everything upfront. The only advantage we can rely on is our inherent teamwork, our understanding of each other. And perhaps some surprise if the Garda think it is their colleagues returning rather than an attack.

We bounce along the road and veer through the square where we encountered the first two soldiers but take the road on the other side of the church grounds. I try to peer over the stone wall as we pass to see if we hid the bodies well but even from the truck the stone wall is too high to see over. The lane is narrow and the trucks take up half the width between the houses on the right and the stone wall. Fragments of wire on poles to the left show there was once electricity and communications here. Two hundred metres past the church Connor swings the truck left into a large open paved area and stops. I stop on his right, away from the Garda station. We jump out and meet between the two trucks so that anyone in the station cannot see us.

"What is the layout of the building?" asks Connor, immediately honing in on our tactics.

The stranger with us explains where each room is, where the cells are, and where the entrances are. The cells are in the middle of the building, toward the rear. They have no windows and the only entrance is beyond two doors, the first at the right of the foyer and the second at the end of a corridor running toward the back of the building. A desk faces the front door and that is where he thinks the Garda sit. There is another private entrance around to the left, where the vehicles usually park.

"Ronan, you take the side entrance, Katniss and I will flank the front door. Count to sixty from when we leave here and then knock the door down, come in toward the front."

"I'll be staying here then," says the prisoner, but we all ignore him. Distractions are not welcome when you are about to raid a Garda station with armed personnel inside.

I peek around the front of Connor's truck to survey the single storey building. It is new, built recently and still needing a final coat of paint. Burgundy red trim borders sections of wall partly painted with a cream colour. The new colours glare brightly in comparison to anything else I have seen in Ireland. This is the first new building I have seen and I wonder who built it – workers hired by the Union or people coerced into a construction gang?

There was definitely construction going on this morning. Materials and tools are stacked near the walls and sheets of speckled canvas cover the ground along the front of the station. The gusting wind has blown the canvas to the south so that it no longer runs along the wall. Pots of paint stand ready for painters to finish the front wall. The labourers have obviously stopped work to attend the flogging but after our attack I doubt they will return, for at least today and probably longer.

Thin black horizontal blinds cover the windows inside, allowing anyone inside to see out but not the other way round. I suspect at night the effect would work in reverse, unless the blinds are closed. This is the biggest risk we have now, that the Garda could be watching us right now. Our raids against stations and barracks have always been at night, we are in new territory now. Can we conduct three engagements in one day?

Connor rounds the truck to the right as Ronan heads left, both of them sprinting in a hunched position toward the corners of the building … three … four … five … As they do so I search the building for threats … twelve … thirteen … I consider using my bow but the pistol is simpler and there is no need for silence. All the reinforcements are piled up in the two trucks … twenty … twenty-one … I wait until Connor has set himself between two windows and Ronan disappears around the corner before I zigzag across to the left side of the door … thirty-two … thirty-three … We take the next few seconds to steady ourselves, calming ourselves whilst checking our weapons.

I see Connor reverse the counting, five … four … three … A crash echoes from Ronan's side of the building. He was counting slightly faster than us. Connor, trench coat open and flapping as he bursts into action, slams into the front door and I see him roll to his right inside the room. I duck into the room, heading to the right looking for threats and cover but pull up when I realise the room is empty. Connor rises from his kneeling position and jumps over the low counter into the back office. I cover the door on the right with my pistol whilst moving to the left to keep a view of Connor.

The door behind me bursts open and I roll and twist at the same time, coming up with my pistol pointing at Ronan. "Ronan!"

"Sorry, didn't know you were in here," he says nonchalantly.

"I could have shot you!"

"Well, I wasn't advertising my entry now, was I? Good thing you don't have a hair trigger," he says with a laugh.

I feel like shouting at him, telling him to be more careful, but I realise I would sound like a mother, or perhaps more like an old woman, so I remain silent. Connor joins us in the foyer again. It is a cold room, all off-white. Even the floors are a smooth white concrete.

Without a word we all walk to the door leading to the cells. So far there are no soldiers or Garda. There is at least one, which we know from the other prisoner. I have a weird thought – _what was his name_? Through the door is a narrow corridor and we spread out along it, moving two at a time whilst the third watches the doors.

We come to a double-door on the left and Ronan moves past it, ducking under the two square windows. I peer through the square windows high on the doors to identify any people inside but cannot see anyone. I instinctively know it is my turn to enter the room first. My District 13 training taught me to go through the doors hard, sprint to the other side of the room, look for cover, draw fire. My two colleagues will come in behind me to eliminate the threat. This is dangerous, playing bait. You have to think fast, spot the best cover, and reach it in seconds. My adrenaline has maxed, I can feel it course through my neck, burning its way into my muscles in preparation for the dash. Connor raises his thumb, his index finger and then his middle finger. As the third finger raises Ronan kicks the doors and I sprint into the room, see two cells on the right, a desk on the left. Ahead of me is a wall, there is no cover except the desk. I do a forward roll and dive toward the wall, facing toward the desk. Unpredictable movement is my only protection now.

Nothing. Not a single shot. Connor and Ronan are in the room flanking the single entrance, guns panning. The silence is unexpected, alien to my expectations. Then I hear a whimper, like a cowering puppy beaten by a cruel master. Jutting out from behind the desk I see a black boot. The sound is coming from the same place. I gesture to the others and Connor edges left around the other side of the desk. Positioning ourselves on opposite sides of a target is dangerous so I start to slide sideways, away from the desk. Then Connor stands and strides to the desk.

He bends and yanks a boy up into the air. The boy cannot be a day past eighteen. His wide eyes project his fear, his frightened cry echo it. From the sudden acidic odour he has wet himself. Connor drags him away from the desk and pushes him across to Ronan who shoves him prone on the middle of the floor and puts his boot on his back. The boy soldier instinctively covers his head with his hands.

Ronan cannot be more than a year older than him but the difference is vast. The boy on the floor may be wearing a soldier's uniform but he is the epitome of naivety. He squirms under Ronan's boot making pitiful sounds. I am sure he thinks he is going to die. Ronan stands tall above him, his unintended pose is that of a victorious trophy hunter but I know the position is just to restrain the unlikely threat. Besides, Ronan is like me, he is a true hunter; he would never hunt for trophies. He does what is needed, that is all. As I stare at the scene before me an image pulses through my mind, an image of Peeta in the first Hunger Games. Sixteen years old. Younger than both the soldier and Ronan but fighting to survive. How did we survive? How did any of us survive? By being hard and cold. _No-one ever wins the games_. Haymitch was right, we just survived.

"Connor!" A voice to my left, where the two cells are, breaks my reverie.

At the bars, his two hands grasping the bars either side of his head, is a man I recognise but cannot put a name to. His grey eyes show relief and I wonder how long he has been imprisoned. The building is new so perhaps they transferred him from elsewhere. Then, as Connor steps past Ronan toward him, the grey beard and eyes trigger a memory. Aiden!


	10. Chapter 10

Reunion

I am on my feet and at the bars before I realise it. I touch his hand and he smiles at me. "Hello Katniss. It's good to see you. You look different." How can he make small talk at a time like this?

"Let's get you out of here," I say. Then I hear a jingle behind me and Ronan is holding up two keys on a ring. I snatch them from him and unlock the door as Connor talks to him in Irish. I open the door to free Aiden when I see the two prisoners through the bars of the next cell. They are women. Two young women standing near the bars. Their matching curly black hair and jade green eyes tell me they are sisters.

We cannot leave them here, it is too dangerous. Who knows what the Union will do to them. I give up my reunion with Aiden and move to the next door to open it as well. Better that a woman rescues them because they will see me as less of a threat that the travel-stained men with me.

The two move confidently toward me at the door. I realise they are tall, at least six foot. They reach the door and tower over me, and there is strength in them. It is not just physical strength but strength of character as well. They seem capable of holding their own regardless of the situation. Now the thought of me rescuing them seems a little strange. They will have to come with us, although we cannot afford passengers who do not contribute. Despite us being a militia unit I believe they will contribute.

"I'm Katniss," I say.

"Kathryn?" asks the one. Is my accent that bad? I repeat my name "Kat … Niss" and they both repeat it correctly.

"Ciara" … "Niamh" they say, matching my brevity. Up close I can see that Ciara is the older of the two. Either side of twenty, both sisters project fearlessness. I swing the cell door open and turn to see Ronan staring at them, wonder evident in his dropped jaw. I shake my head. This is why men and young women shouldn't fight together; the men never seem to be able to keep their focus on the task at hand.

"We need to leave," says Connor, "Ronan, search him then lock him in the cell." Ronan starts frisking the soldier on the ground whilst Connor issues orders to the rest of us.

Aiden is watching us intently and I think of his comment that I am different. I realise there must be a substantial change since last he saw us. I am certainly not the flower he expected. My clothing, the way I move and the weapons I carry. Even though we rescued Shar together I know Katniss now is tougher and rougher than Katniss was ten months ago. I have changed, become less forgiving. There is steel in my conduct, born of a confidence forged by months of fighting. Connor has changed too. Our time together has pushed him to break through his boundaries and become a soldier, not just a man protesting without result. Beyond all his previous skills he has become a man of action, a leader people will follow. The two of us must be quite a couple to encounter. Daunting, intimidating even. We pair so well, Connor and me, and I glance at him, wondering if we are a couple, despite an obvious gap in our relationship. We have come to know each other so well. Each knows what the other wants, sometimes eerily so.

The others are leaving but it dawns on me that the boy we have locked up called for help. He must have heard the gunfire echo across the silent town. What would I have done? Certainly I would have called the officer. Of course, there would be no answer, so I would call the next town commander or perhaps the district commander.

"Did you hear the gunfire? Did you call for reinforcements?" I ask, knowing the answer before he nods assent.

"I … I … I needed the money. That's why I took the job. We are poor. I didn't kill no one. I swear."

Ronan snorts a laugh, "We knew that when we first met you. Who did you call?"

"I radioed to Cork, to the district commander."

"South. If they drive they will be here within an hour. Helicopters, if they have any, even less. Let's go," says Connor, taking the lead again.

The six of us stride down the corridor toward the exit as sobs of relief echo behind us. I know how he feels. The thought of losing your life when you are so young is like a hammer to your psyche. At one moment you are confident of decades of life, flushed with the hubris of youth. The next moment you are expecting to die, wondering what could have been. How people react to that idea shows their true mettle.

Connor makes us search for supplies before we leave. Once we have raided the building and stocked up on food, water and weapons we burst out into the parking area. Connor is splitting us into two groups of three, hurriedly providing us with a plan of action, but I am not listening. Instead I am looking back at the building. I want more. More destruction, more revenge. More. I need to do something to show the Union and the people we are taking the regime on. The bodies mean nothing. We will hide them and the Union will not miss a few soldiers in a backwater. Anyone can be replaced. I look at the new building and what it represents. The older houses around us are in need of maintenance, coats of paints, new shingles for the roofs. This shiny building shows the disdain of the Union for the Irish people and the lifestyle they endure.

Then I have it. People can see smoke from kilometres away, and a burnt-down station will be visible long after the fire is out. I want to burn it down but no fuel is evident. Perhaps the trucks have additional fuel canisters. Then I think of the boy inside. I don't want him to die but if we release him we cannot take him with us, which elevates our risk.

The paint pots near the wall beckon to me and I decide to deface the building instead of burning it. Not quite the broadcast I want but it will have to do. I pry open a tin of paint, dunk a brush and start splashing red paint across the cream wall by the entrance. An arc becomes a half circle of blood and then loops underneath it to form a circle. My hand has a will of its own and I release control, allowing it to fashion an image as if I was a bystander. Paint splashes inside the circle, crudely fashioning an image. A final line running down from right to left, with an arrowhead at the end, signals the image is complete. Only after taking a few steps back do I see the complete picture.

"What is that?" asks Connor. As I painted the others dropped into silence, wondering what I was doing.

Only I, amongst the six of us, would recognise this. It is Madge's gift to me before my first Hunger Games. On the wall I have painted a crude rendition of my pin. It is a Mockingjay!

"It is the first step to freedom," I answer, my voice cracking. I haven't seen this image for more than two decades and it invokes memories from the crevices of my mind that I forgot were there. I see all the faces of my past both friends and enemies. I see my friend Madge, dead in a firestorm, undeserving of her fate, caught in a war not of her making, representative of all the innocents that suffer the worst. I see Cinna, creative, beautiful Cinna, brave enough to make my wedding dress transform into a Mockingjay. I see Paylor, leading starving rebels in support of an idea symbolised by my pin. I see Snow, my arrow pointing at him as he coughs blood and expects death. I see Alma Coin, cold and driven, and suddenly I fear I am becoming her. My knees weaken and if not for Connor I would collapse to the ground. As it is he only just braces me in time.

"In the trucks, let's go," he says to everyone, then whispers to me, "can you drive?"

"Yes, I'll be fine."

"Good, then mount up. You have the two women. I don't want Ronan with them and I need to talk to Aiden. Besides, I doubt they will let us split them."

He has separated us into two groups well; I cannot fault his thought process.

"What about the bodies in the church?" I ask.

"Leave them, let the villagers answer to the Union," says Connor. Usually calm, his voice is edged with anger at the reluctance of the locals to assist us. With that we mount the trucks and head south, straight toward the approaching Union reinforcements. I know it is a risk to use the vehicles but right now we need speed and after five days of walking I am relieved to have wheeled transport. I follow silently, not knowing what to say to the two strangers in the cabin with me. I never have been good at talking with women, I gravitate to men. Perhaps it was my upbringing, being so close to my father, becoming the provider for my family at age 11, when my father died and my mother descended into ennui.

Thankfully Niamh, the younger sister, breaks the awkward silence. "Are the reinforcements not coming from Cork?"

I was right, they are smart. "Yes, they are. Connor probably thinks we can reach a hiding place before we meet them on the road. He will detour off the main road soon, I am sure. South is the last direction the Union will search. Especially if the soldier back there tells them we know they were coming from Cork. The only risk will be meeting them on the road, and the possibility of drones overhead."

Niamh doesn't question my statement but I do not want to drive in silence. "Where are you from?" I ask.

They exchange glances before Ciara answers. Perhaps they are deciding if they can trust me. A look between sisters can be more effective than a whole conversation. "You aren't from Ireland."

"No, is it that obvious?"

"You don't sound at all like us," she says, "Where are you from?"

"It's a long story, but ... How about you answer first, it will take less time. I will tell you about me later."

"… A small town to the west of here." I realise they are not giving anything away to me, keeping their full identities and their origins secret. Perhaps a question that is not so personal will elicit a better answer.

"And how did you come to be in a prison in Millstreet?"

"We burned the Union emblem at the local school. Someone betrayed us to the Garda, probably for food rations."

"Well, I am glad we attacked the Garda station when we did then. You are the type of people a rebellion needs."  
" Is there a rebellion?" asks Niamh, a hopeful tone in her voice. Her sister nudges her, possibly to stay quiet, but I seize the opportunity.

"Niamh, we want to start one. We have been attacking the Garda and Union barracks, taking supplies for the people."

"Is that you then? We heard …"  
"Not all of them, but quite a few. We want everyone to rise up. Win freedom from the Union."

Ciara interjects before Niamh can respond. "What's in it for you then, if you're not Irish?"

What is in it for me? It is a complicated answer but I don't verbalise it for them. I thought I knew the short answer until two weeks ago. The drive to go home to Panem would have been my answer then but now I am not sure. Thomas's assertion that I am out for revenge plagues me. It isn't just the concept of revenge but what for and whom from. Do I want revenge for the Union and my imprisonment or revenge against anyone who has oppressed others?

We have travelled about six kilometres when our lead truck slows and veers to the left, heading east on a side road. The landscape in the area is hilly and we turn left and right down different lanes, always heading south and east. The unpaved roads pass through the peaceful pastoral landscape, which is at odds with our less-than-peaceful situation. The narrow lanes wind through farms, bordered by hedgerows, sometimes high, sometimes low, of yellow gorse, ferns, grasses and trees. Lush paddocks dotted with black-faced sheep, black and white cows and the odd horse stretch across the rolling hills. Even in the poor light of this cloudy day I can see the colours are vibrant and fertile. The rows of high trees and hedges sometimes block our view, usually near whitewashed brick farmhouses with old fences and rusted gates. Concrete or stone walls still hold their shape along parts of the road where the slope is steeper. The presence of farms within untouched nature, a mix of settled and wild lands, mimics our presence in this serene landscape.

Rounding a bend I see a farmer sitting on a moss-covered stone wall, watching a flock of sheep grazing. He turns his attention to the two Union trucks rattling along his normally quiet road. We are probably the most exciting event of his day, perhaps his week, or even month. I know I could quite happily swap lives with him right now, but Connor doesn't slow and I press on behind him, leaving the farmer to ponder our purpose and destination. I only hope that he will not report our presence on this road. If he does we may as well light a beacon telling the imminent patrols where we are. For a moment I consider turning back but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. What is a farmer going to say when the Union tell him they have lost two of their trucks? I doubt they would ask.

We ascend from the lower slopes of a valley over the crest of a hill and I am amazed. Along the next ridge stand sentinels to more prosperous times. Giant three-bladed windmills dot the landscape. The once-white towers stand around a hundred metres high, with the blades centred at the top. Some of the blades have rusted, or fallen, due to the lack of maintenance and use. I wonder if they were operating when the Union crushed the Irish rebellion a quarter century ago. The windmills look far more ancient than twenty-five years would explain. It would take a generation or more to replace them, if ever. I doubt the Irish, in the diminished state they find themselves, could manage it. I am sure Panem could help but we would have to defeat two dictatorships first.

The landscape changes as we continue our flight up into the mountains. The fertile flora gives way to barren fields of hardier plants, shrubs and grass. Heather abounds amongst the rocky landscape. Across some of the mountains there are evergreen forests, dark conifers that will provide ample cover, as long as we can reach them before the Union troops reach us. The road is now little more than a path, nature is slowly reclaiming the once-clear ground, and it descends down toward the valley floor. Connor spots a gap in the wall running alongside the road and veers left into a forested area.

The two trucks are designed for rough terrain and we bounce around in the cabin as we plough through the undergrowth, until Connor comes to a stop. The men exit their vehicle and carry their supplies to us. We help them load the boxes and bags and then they move to the back, ordering the three of us to stay at the front. To their credit Ciara and Niamh do not gag or faint at the sight of the corpses the men dump of the truck. Instead I see them making the sign of the cross to their God, whispering silent prayers for the souls of the soldiers and Garda that died. The sight of them doing so reminds me how people are hardened to the horrors of war. Society's norms change in extreme times. What is not acceptable in times of peace passes as routine in war. And for me this is a war. Despite a lack of major battles it is a conflict nonetheless.

The men rejoin us and we all clamber into the cabin. Connor takes over the driving and we make it back to the road, heading east again, away from the main road between Millstreet and Cork. Everyone is apprehensive, concerned that the Union forces will arrive whilst we are still in the open. The cabin is devoid of conversation except for the occasional instruction from Aiden on which route to follow. Connor heads up another hill and enters another copse of conifers, crunching over foliage deep into cover.

He stops and the engine dies. We are still and quiet, and relieved that the Union hasn't found us so far. Now the wait begins, to see if any drones were deployed to spot us, or if people on the ground saw or heard our passage. We will not be certain until at least the morning so it will be a long night with guards posted. In the morning we can re-assess the situation. I doubt we will move from here for a couple of days at least. We step out of the truck into the rapidly cooling evening. Connor says we cannot risk a fire, so it will be a cold meal tonight.

A feint buzzing sound starts to grow from the south, escalating over a few seconds until it evolves into the unmistakable sound of helicopters flying low and fast. Ronan runs toward the treeline and I follow, watching northward to see if the helicopters are heading to Millstreet and we are not disappointed. Four helicopters in lopsided V fly almost directly overhead. I wonder if Connor and Aiden deliberately selected this place to hide so that we could watch for aircraft and track the Union's response. The helicopters disappear over the next ridge faster than they arrived so the two of us head back to the others.

Introductions are being made between our new companions and Connor so Ronan and I step up as well. We are the group with weapons and the two girls look intimidated so I step forward and tell them who I am and where I am from to provide reassurance they are with friends. They are a little surprised when I mention Panem and my journey here, although they recognise my picture from the posters. They also recognise Connor and Ronan but ask no questions about our former Italian companions. We explain how we fit with Aiden and then they tell us their story.

Ciara starts, providing detail that must be for mostly for me as the men around me would know all the history they tell of. They grew up west of Millstreet near an old submerged town called Killarney. The west of Ireland was always a place that preserved the Irish language and customs. The Gaeltacht it was called. When the Union invaded they found most resistance in the western islands and that is where the people were most suppressed. When the eastern islands rebelled the west joined in and started using civil disobedience to disrupt the Union. The father of the sisters was a leader in the sedition but when his daughters were still very young the Union captured him, never to be seen again. Their mother took them to stay with their grandparents far to the north. When they were of age they decided to return to Killarney to carry on their father's efforts, hoping to reconnect with his old comrades. Three days ago they defaced a Union barracks, writing slogans of freedom. Somehow the Union tracked them and arrested them. They were in Millstreet prison awaiting transportation to Cork when we freed them.

"Well, you will need to stay with us for at least a while. As I told you before, we can take you to a place of safety where you can join us with others in the resistance," offers Aiden.

"Yes, you are welcome here," adds Connor.

"Not that it is much right now," says Ronan, "we were planning a few extra rooms, running water, a sun room…"

We all start laughing, Ronan's comments breaking the serious mood. From then on Connor issues instructions for us to set a cold camp for the night. He knows me well enough so he offers the girls the truck cabin to sleep in. I have been sleeping outdoors for a week now, another few days will mean nothing, despite the cold of winter. Although we have seen some snow the temperatures are nowhere near the lows we reach in 12. The sea surrounds the islands and keeps the temperatures moderate. Summers are not that warm either.

I still want to speak to Aiden, find out what happened after the battle at the farmhouse, if they went to Cork Airport, and where the others are, but he is busy with building shelters with Connor and Ronan. I realise I last saw him nearly a year ago. So much has happened since then, I can't really remember what Shar looks like. I knew her for such a short time but she is my only true link with Panem. Paramount in my mind is my promise to her that I would get her back home. I don't know how I am going to do that but in the meantime I must find her. I wonder how she has coped, alone in a foreign land. Sure, she has been with the others we met – Farrell, Aiden and Ailin, but if she is anything like me she will want to make it back.

The men quickly build two lean-tos. Branches run between trees with rope from the truck to tie them. They flatten foliage and lay it over the rough frames to provide protection from the cold and the inevitable rain. By the time they are done it is dark and we all climb back into the truck to stay warm and divide some of the food we stole from the prison. Apples, bread, carrots, cured meat and two bottles of milk comprise a feast for Connor, Ronan and me. On the trail for a week, it is the largest meal we have had since leaving Wexford Island. The meal is quiet but for the sound of eating and the occasional request for an item out of reach.

I finally find the chance to ask Aiden about the others. It is too early to sleep and we all are comfortable and sated after the meal. There are things to organise but for a few minutes we allow ourselves the luxury of resting.

"Tell us what happened since we last saw you Aiden," I prompt, and he takes a swig from a milk bottle before wiping his beard, sitting straighter and updating us.

"The four of us, Farrell, Shar, Ailin and I ran through the tunnel, kicking up dust. By the time we reached the end of the tunnel we were coughing up a storm. We climbed into another farmhouse and stood listening to the battle going on back where the two of you were. Ailin wanted to go back to help but Farrell wouldn't allow it. We had to trust Connor's decision and honour the sacrifice the two of you made, he said. Then there was quiet and that was worse than hearing the shooting and blasts. Had you died at the hands of the troops or been captured? All of us had the same thoughts but couldn't voice them at the time. Shar was crying from worry for you. 'This is my fault', she would keep saying, until Farrell shook her to silence. Farrell forced us into another tunnel to hide when the helicopters took off. Time passes slowly when you are underground without reference from day and night. We waited there for two hours that seemed more like ten."

He takes another swig of milk. "Well, we came out the tunnel and then went back through the tunnel, slower this time, back to the farmhouse where you defended our escape. The place was a disaster and there was no way you could have survived. Bullet holes covered every wall, and the battle had shattered all the windows. The furniture you had overturned for defence was shredded and destroyed. There was no way you could be alive, or at least so we thought. When we went outside Ailin found tracks that showed two bodies dragged to a point where a helicopter landed. The damp earth helped him piece together the story that you were taken away. You were alive. It was a great relief for us although we had no idea where they took you."

"They took us to the Rock," I fill in for him.

Connor fidgets on the front seat where he has been eating. Aiden cannot know but this is the most painful part of his story for Connor, the torture at the Rock. He remains silent and I know it is best to do so as well. Ronan glances at both of us, understanding the sensitivity. It was Ronan that helped when they dumped Connor in the cell. Aiden waits a few seconds and realises we have nothing else to say so he continues.

"After that we had few options. There was no way to go back to Farrell's farm, and we couldn't wait for you. We also would not be able to track you to whatever prison the Union took you to. Thomas left us to go back to New Dublin. He said it would be safe for him and better for us to have a friend there. We told him it was a risk but he was adamant. The next day Farrell decided to stick with the plan, so we headed south. Farrell hoped that if you escaped you would do the same, go to Cork Airport."

"We did go, but only in the summer when we escaped," Ronan says.

"That is something extraordinary, to be sure. How did you escape?" asks Aiden.

"That is a story for another night, when we are back with Farrell. Keep going," says Connor.

"At Cork we found the plane destroyed. Farrell wrote a note for you and put it in the cockpit, hoping you would find it but needing to keep it away from enemy eyes."  
"The cockpit! I never thought to look. You mean if I did we would have found you?" Connor's face is a picture of disbelief.

"Yes, he wrote of the place we would hide. Sorry," says Aiden.  
"No, it is my fault. When I saw the plane I was so disheartened I didn't bother going to it, to check. I should say sorry," Connor replies.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, we have had a successful campaign against the Union, it may have been different if we had found the note," I say, reaching over to touch his shoulder. "Go on Aiden."

"Well, we were leaving Cork when we met a four man patrol. They were Garda, not soldiers, otherwise my story may have ended there. As it was we overpowered them tied them up and took their weapons. We hid them in a culvert near the airport, I doubt they were found for a few days. Then we took their vehicle and drove north before crossing water to a place Farrell and I knew would be safe for us."

"Where did you go?" asks Connor.

"We are at Carran, on Clare Island," says Aiden. "It was isolated, we have friends there. The people are also pro-independence. At Carran we could hide in plain sight. A few times the Union came looking but we always managed to avoid the soldiers. Our destination we kept as a secret, to protect the network. Every month one of us would travel to Cork to see if you had left a message for us. Last week I came down by boat to Charleville and on my way to Cork a patrol found me sleeping."

"What about Shar, is she OK?" I ask, surprised that he hadn't mentioned anything of their well-being.

He smiles. "No need to worry about her," he says enigmatically.

The sentence leaves me frustrated. Why does he not just tell me about how she is. Say she is good. Or great even. Tell me if she speaks of me, or of home. Without full information my mind will turn over and stew, coming up with the worst scenarios. Men!

Connor breaks the rest period, issuing instructions. We need a guard, the last hour has been a massive risk. He assigns watch periods to all except the two girls but they protest and he grudgingly adds them to the end of the roster. He is unsure of them and trust is difficult to gain at times like this. If I know Connor he will make a plan to cover their two shifts. Next he allocates sleeping berths. The two girls will sleep in the truck, Ronan and Aiden under one lean-to. That leaves the two of us under the other. I am happy with that. I feel more comfortable with him than the other two, especially Aiden whom I only met briefly nearly a year ago.

With that we disperse to our allocated places. Ronan takes the first watch and we slip under the foliage, searching for warmth. Connor and I lie next to each other, separate by a hand's breadth. After a few minutes I hear him mutter a word and edge toward me. I roll over to lie against him, knowing the proximity of another body is the best way to keep warm. There is no place to prudish when keeping warm is most important. Besides, we are both fully clothed. And it is not like we haven't shared sleeping quarters before. It is not like I am ever going to make it home. This is my new life now. He slides his arm underneath me and I stretch over him, and drop into an exhausted sleep, dreading waking for my watch.


	11. Chapter 11

Day 358 – Hiding

I have a vague memory of Connor sliding out of the lean-to in the dead of night. It was a moment where you know what is happening but cannot react to it. The darkness, the difference in temperature inside and outside the makeshift bed and the stress of the previous day all combine to render me dazed and incapable of escaping the lethargy of sleep.

What does wake me is the cold that creeps in to the bed a few hours later. The lean-to and the foliage do not retain the heat like a roof and blanket would. I have also been in the same clothes for five days. My toes fell like ice from the chilling moisture in my boots. We sleep fully clothed in case we need to react to a threat or break camp quickly. More significantly though, Connor's body heat is missing.

I am loathe to extricate myself from my resting place but I have the feeling that Connor has been awake longer than he should. We are all supposed to take a three hour watch, mine being last. He must have decided to let me sleep longer than is my due. He isn't protecting me, he knows he doesn't have to do that, but he does try to make my life easier. I think back to the bath he ran for me and the warmth of it and wish for the same now, even though I know it is just a dream. We need to reach Farrell before I will have a chance at such a luxury again.

My curl my head toward my chest, shrinking from the cold, and I realise I need to bath or shower. I think of the bath Connor made which was hot and soothing but it was nothing compared to the shower back home. Peeta had it designed with a wide showerhead, directly above the cubicle, that envelopes a body in a cocoon of hot water. On good days I would stand and luxuriate in the cleanliness. I can stand in the shower for ages, until my skin turns red in the areas where the over-hot water flows. On bad days, when the nightmares were particularly disturbing I would kneel, curled over, and hide away from the world, seemingly protected by the water.

I decide to join Connor. The foliage rustles as I slip out of the lean-to and stretch the sleep out of my muscles and joints. Besides the rustle the copse is perfectly quiet and I peer into the darkness trying to locate Connor. He will be patrolling rather than sit and watch. Patrolling keeps your body warmer and allows you to cover all avenues of approach to a central site, in this case our camp. I know he will patrol clockwise so I start to circumvent the camp counter-clockwise, sure that I will meet him within a rotation. Sure enough I see a shadow coming toward me after a minute and whisper his name to ensure he knows it is me. Despite the gibbous moon shining brightly the trees block out most of the light, making the scene ghostly, with fingers of silver light piercing the canopy. He changes direction and approaches me, disappearing and reappearing as he walks in and out of the light.

"Why'd you wake up?" he asks in a whisper.

"It was cold without you," I answer and step into his personal space. His arms wrap around me and I snuggle into him, shivering. "What's the time?"

"About an hour to dawn, maybe closer to two."

I know if I suggest he sleeps he will refuse so instead I stand like a parasite, absorbing his body warmth. He leans away a little to look down at me. A warning bell goes off in the back of my mind. He wants me to look up so that he can kiss me so I keep my position close to him. Is this fair to him? He has no demons and he doesn't have a partner. I, on the other hand, have both. The first in ample supply and the second, well, for the second I only need one, and I have one, a husband.

My link to Peeta becomes more tenuous daily. I struggle to remember his eyes, his smile, his mannerisms. It takes time to picture Peeta sitting at his easel or playing with the children. It is also confusing thinking of what he looks like now. Has he taken the children to the Capitol? Maybe he dresses differently and has a new hairstyle. I have been gone a year and declared dead. Will Peeta have moved on or is he holding out the hope that I am still alive. Perhaps he thinks I am dead but will not reject my memory by having a new partner. If he does have a new partner I am sure the children wouldn't approve, and the public … well, the public are fickle, especially in the Capitol. I would be last year's news. And who would punish themselves by not having a lover, or even a few.

My thoughts of Peeta cool me more than the night can and I step away from Connor, leaving a rapidly cooling warm spot where our bodies pressed together. I start to walk clockwise along his patrol route and he follows, confused at what just happened but I cannot explain, especially not to him.

We walk through the copse, checking all directions. Moving keeps me warm although my toes and fingers are cold. There is no need to talk, we are comfortable in each other's company without the need for constant conversation. Besides, the conversation may be an awkward one. As night marches toward dawn the sky darkens instead of lightening. The moonshine is disappearing and at the edge of the trees I see a storm rolling in from the south-east. I signal Connor and we head back to the camp site. The first spatters of rain strike as we each camp. I dash to the truck and bang on a door before opening it and leaping up and inside. Connor has woken to two men and they follow me. My alert clearly woke the sisters but luckily they are clothed.

The rain hammers through the trees and the truck windows are soon opaque from water on the outside and vapour condensing on the inside. It is going to be a long day if the rain keeps up like this and we have to stay inside the truck. At least the eight-seater has space for us all.

We all settle and Connor starts to discuss our next moves. Connor suggests it is best to stay in this hiding place for another day, partly due to the inclement weather but also because the Union will be searching. Aiden argues the weather makes it a perfect time to be moving, drones will not operate and the soldiers will remain in barracks in most places. After a week on the road I am ready for a day of rest and suggest we remain as well, agreeing with Connor, although for different reasons.

Ronan has been rummaging in the storage area in the rear of the cabin and starts handing out ration bars for breakfast. Then he sides with Aiden, suggesting we move now. Before Connor can object Ronan says there are Union uniforms in the lockers and we can find more at the other abandoned truck. Finally Ciara pipes up and agrees with Ronan. At four to one it is decided. We will dress as soldiers and use the truck to drive north, stopping back at the other truck to strip it of supplies. Connor and I are usually the decision-makers but something has changed in Ronan. Perhaps it is the addition of the two girls.

At the other vehicle we find more uniforms and food, as well as three pistols and ammunition. A whoop from Ronan catches our attention. He steps out the cabin with a rocket launcher. Ciara helps him bring out four rockets and I can see the look of excitement as they inspect the launcher, discussing how to use it. Then they start talking about the targets they could choose. They add vehicles, buildings and bridges to the list. It is obvious our raids are going to start escalating and that suits me well. It is time to step this rebellion up a notch.

Half an hour later, after loading our truck with supplies and covering the bodies of the dead soldiers with additional branches from a thorny bush to ward off returning scavengers, we start the next part of our journey.

Our ultimate objective is Carran, where we can re-unite with Farrel, Ailin and Shar. The road there bypasses Millstreet to the west and turns north to the Charleville ferry that brought Aiden here. The younger members of our group wanted to drive straight through Millstreet but Connor insisted we go around. We will find a place to ditch the truck and uniforms so that the Union will not suspect our destination is the ferry. Connor drives away from the Boggeragh Mountains the same way we came in, and then crosses through the lower hills and starts to negotiate some small tracks up and across Caherbarnagh Mountain.

The going is slow due to the poor road, more a track than a road, and the weather. At times the track disappears completely and only speculative advances rediscover it. The weather is also turning everything to mud. The higher we rise the thicker the cloud becomes, until visibility is just a few metres. Four hours after leaving Connor admits the route is impractical. After a short debate we realise we need to go back through Millstreet. It is the only decent road north. If we want to keep the truck we have to brave the return. We all agree walking is not an option yet. I restrain myself when thinking we should have stayed where we were. This has realised my earlier fears of being caught in the open. If the clouds lift the Union aircraft could spot us.

We bump back through the cloud and soggy road. Somehow the journey back seems even longer than going up. Once back on the road Connor stops the vehicle. Night is now upon us and the rain has stopped. He is wary of driving through Millstreet in the dark with headlights blazing. It will be the perfect trap. Aiden suggests we ditch the truck and walk the fifty kilometres to Charleville. Ronan is for crashing through town but eventually we agree to take refuge in an old farmhouse Aiden knows of on the lower slopes of Claragh Mountain. That will provide cover and a place to hide the truck, as well as respite from the obvious frustration of the day. Connor follows his directions half a kilometre off the main road into Millstreet. Within minutes we are under a roof, the first in six days for Connor, Ronan and me. I feel pure relief at the civility of sleeping in a building, even if it is on the floor. We all feel too drained to make much of an effort for a dinner, rather sharing rations around and then locating the warmest places in the house to sleep through the night. Aiden tales the first watch. Thirty minutes later, cold and uncomfortable on the floor, I move over to Connor. I drop my blanket over his and then slide underneath the blankets, placing my head on his shoulder and snuggling against his warmth. His arm wraps possessively around me and I ease into a dreamless sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Day 359 - Hovercraft

Once again the last guard shift is mine. I prefer the first and last shifts as you have a full eight hours of unbroken sleep. Waking in the middle of the night always throws out my sleep patterns. I think Connor knows this and subsequently allocates the middle shifts for Ronan and himself. But, unlike yesterday, he does wake me for my shift. Perhaps because I didn't wake when he roused for his. After driving for nine hours yesterday Connor is more than happy to steal another three hours of valuable sleep. We will have a long and tense march north tomorrow. I head out of the crumbling house and follow a patrol route suggested by Connor.

The patrol is easier than last night. The moonlight is brighter, mostly due to the clouds of yesterday disappearing before the onslaught of a sea breeze blowing from the west. It will also be a full moon in three days. The ground is also clear and I am able to move alongside hedges to remain unseen to any unwanted company.

The sky to the east is brightening by the minute, cloudless although I doubt it will stay that way the whole day. I decide to complete my circuit and then head to the camp because with weather like this I am certain we will be moving. Ronan will probably be awake; he is inevitably the first to wake in the morning. Together we can rouse the others, have a quick morning meal and then start walking, since the truck will probably to stay here. We cannot afford to use it since the high-level drones will pick it up easier than people walking through the fields and lanes.

As I skirt the hedge to the north I hear aircraft engines approaching from the southeast. I hunker back into the hedge quickly, camouflaging myself. The last thing we need now is for the Union to spot me. I look up, expecting a drone or fixed-wing aircraft like the burnt-out one we left at Cork Airport. The engine sounds strangely familiar. I realise there is no rotor sound so it is not s helicopter, the usual aircraft the Union use. The noise is intensifying as the craft approaches, a whine and a hum intertwined into a chilling union of power and malice. Where do I know that sound from? I wait for the plane to appear but all I can hear is the sound. I track the aircraft by the engines. Noise from an aircraft always seems to be behind it. The higher the plane the further behind the noise is. This plane is low though, so the sound should be close to the source. I scan the sky because I am baffled. I can hear it but not see it. The noise is much louder now, drowning out all the sounds I heard a minute ago, birds and wind. The noise is directly overhead so I push through a gap in the unkempt hedge behind me to look north. Then I see it, a patch of haze moving fast and low toward Millstreet. I only see it as it moves below a solitary small cloud. It takes me a few seconds to register that the aircraft has a cloaking device. And I remember the unique signature of the engines.

Flying above me is a hovercraft! It has to be. Flashbacks of the war remind me of the sound, the way a hovercraft moves. It is a hovercraft, it has to be. But how did it come to be here? Is it friendly or antagonistic? Why is it here? And why now? It cannot belong to the Union. District thirteen kept hovercraft technology secret from the Union for decades, so why would they share it now? Especially the cloaking technology. No, it must be from District 13.

The Mockingjay! I painted the Mockingjay on the station wall. So the Union reported the image to Coin. He has sent this craft to look for me. Am I such a threat to him? Is he scared of a rebellion in this regressed country of Ireland, thousands of kilometres from Panem? Surely getting rid of me the way he did is enough. Or is his thirst for revenge unfulfilled. My escape has obviously angered him. This is personal.

I watch the patch of haze disappear over the ridge of the mountain. My instinct is to run after it, see if it stops at Millstreet, but I know it will. There can be no other reason for it to be here. So I break through the hedge and sprint as fast as I can down the slope of the paddock to the house.

There is no need to wake my companions since they are all in the entrance hall, Connor and Aiden peering through grimy windows toward the sky.

"Did you see what flew over us?" Ronan asks a second before the others are asking similar questions.

"Was it a helicopter?" … "Was it the Union? It must have been the Union." … "Did it see you?" … "Are they looking for us?"

"No," is all I manage for an answer to the bombardment of questions. I doubt any of them could ask a question that I could give a _Yes_ answer to.

"What do you mean?" Connor steps forward and raises his voice to quell the others.

"No, it wasn't a helicopter, No, it wasn't the Union, No, I didn't see it. But I didn't see it because I couldn't."

My answer puzzles them but at least I have their attention and an end to the questions.

"The aircraft has a cloaking device. It is a hovercraft from Panem."

They absorb my answer and I can see they are still confused so I explain how hovercraft fly and how the cloaking device hides the craft whilst it flies. I tell them how it disengages at certain times, how I shot one down with my explosive arrows during the rebellion, when the Capitol was bombing a hospital full of innocent victims.

"Will they take you home?" asks Niamh worriedly. I realise that in just two days she has invested her future with us. Are we that trustworthy? A niggling thought persists, _are they_?

"No, they are here to kill me. I am their enemy."

I see that the five people in front of me have varying degrees of understanding so I try to explain.

"I have an enemy back home. His name is Jason Coin and he is a dictator, he made himself President. It was a coup of sorts but carried out subtly in the Senate. If I were around it would not have worked, he knew I would oppose it, start a rebellion. So he had to get rid of me. He was clever, he fabricated a mission to Ireland and the Senate sent me here. His troops tried to kill me but I escaped with Shar. And here I am, exiled forever, fighting a new rebellion that is not for my own country's freedom. He thought they locked me away permanently on the Rock, but we escaped again, Connor, Ronan, me, and some others. So he is looking for me again."

Ronan moves closer, next to Connor. "The picture you painted…"  
"The Mockingjay," I fill in for him.

"Yes, the Mockingjay. That is what brought that hovercraft here?"  
I nod.

"You think it went to Millstreet?"

Again I nod.

Ronan looks at everyone and then pulls out his pistol. "Then let's go destroy it."

I laugh, "Thanks Ronan, but you can't destroy a hovercraft with a pistol."

"Yes, but we have a rocket launcher in the truck," says Ciara, also stepping forward. Suddenly all five of them are standing in a semi-circle, focussed on me, waiting for an answer. Their support is absolute; their commitment to me and this team is unquestioned. Even Ciara and Niamh are committed. I guess they were looking for a cause to attach to, some way to fight against the Union.

I look at Ronan and Connor and realise the three of us are battle-hardened. We even look like rebels in our unwashed, trail-stained clothing, with guns hanging off our hips. I haven't seen myself in a mirror for a long time, always avoiding any I notice. The possibility I will not recognise myself scares me. I struggle to retain my inner self but I know I look completely different to the person who was walking in a clearing with an attendant when her placid existence blew up, no, was blown up. Perhaps this is who I really am. Perhaps I am meant to be a fighter rather than a mother and wife.

"OK, let's show Coin he can't come here without our permission," I say, and even Aiden lets out a shout, joining the younger cohorts, 'whoops' and 'yeahs' echoing in the small empty room.


	13. Chapter 13

Attack

Two hours later we have sifted and sorted supplies. Dwindling food supplies taken from the Garde station, tasteless rations from the Union trucks, an assortment of weapons and ammunition, all go into three piles. The first pile will remain, such as guns that are impractical, mismatched ammunition and guns, food that no one will eat or is too difficult to carry. The second pile we split into smaller clusters to store in packs that we will carry once the assault is over. They comprise food, extra clothing and excess, weapons. We will drop the packs just before we attack and then retrieve them as we withdraw. The last group consists only of additional weaponry. Connor, Ronan and I have our preferred guns, and my bow, but we need additional ammunition and the others need to arm themselves.

Whilst we sorted the goods Connor drove the truck out of the dilapidated stone barn and eastward along the farm road. He hopes that when the Union react they will detect the truck and concentrate their search. It would make sense for us to escape into the mountains. Our actual escape route will be north, skirting the town and taking a direct route to Charleville. We will be on foot so we will need to minimise the distance we travel to the ferry. I was for keeping the truck but Connor and Aiden convince me that the drones will track it too quickly, especially on such a clear day.

Armed and loaded with backpacks, weapons and a rocket launcher with four rockets, we labour northwards up the tilted, overgrown paddock and into the forest. The forest blankets the top of a small hill that is dwarfed by Mount Claragh to the east. We spread out and weave our way through the coniferous trees and undergrowth, careful to keep each other in sight. Ronan is walking point, his youthful energy funnelled into intense scanning for enemies. Burdened as we are, we make slow progress up the hill and everyone is relieved when the ground flattens out at the top. We progress down the hill, crunching on fallen pine needles. The fresh fragrance of the pine invigorates me, raising my alertness, which is good considering we are about to attack another Garde station, and a hovercraft that will be lethal if it is able to launch before we can destroy or disable it. The type of tree changes to a mixture of short and tall trees, some perennial and some with their leaves fallen for the winter. I see Ash, Birch, Hawthorn and many I do not recognise. I strain to picture the trees in our family book, without success. Ronan beckons us to a small clearing as he stares out across the valley.

Before us, stretching out to a low hill in the west is the valley that cradles Millstreet. The forested slope runs down to a dip where four abandoned warehouses, rusting and crumbling like the old Cork Airport building, stand derelict, surrendered to Mother Nature who, in her slow but unstoppable way, is reclaiming the area that men once stole. Vines and bushes cover much of the buildings and roads between them. There is slight rise in the ground beyond the buildings, halfway to the main road south, then the slope runs down to the floor of the wide valley. To the north we can see the roofs of the town and directly to the east, barely visible through the trees, is the Garde station. In an open area to the right of the pristine new building stands the hovercraft.

The aircraft is out of place here. It towers menacingly over the surrounds, like a wolf on a hillock surveying a flock of sheep, analysing which one will be easiest to slaughter. Despite being a kilometres away the District 13 insignia across its flank, emblazoned in bright red paint, is immediately recognisable and stops my breath at once. The others have never seen one before but hovercraft are the only aircraft I ever knew until I arrived here in Ireland. To me this daunting war machine brings back fuzzy memories that still rip open my carefully crafted mental shields.

Feelings of hate, loathing and fear broil inside me. What Coin and the Union, the evil partnership, have done to me deserves retaliation, and the destruction of this emblem of their power is a good place to start. At the same time I remember hiding with gale when these machines patrolled the woods in District 12, looking for law-breakers. And I remember them lifting bodies from the arena, like carrion birds swooping for an undeserved meal. I know their power, know how effectively they can swoop down and rain death on people. And suddenly there is another emotion: hope. Hope that if they can reach this place in Ireland I will be able to make it home.

"It's huge!" gasps Ciara. I had briefly forgotten the others around me. Now I look at them and realise the effect the hovercraft has when first seen. They are all staring, except Connor, who is watching me with a strange look in his eyes.

"It's almost as big as the station," says Aiden, "I doubt the Union could fight against that. Imagine if we had one!"

"And how are we supposed to fight against it?" asks Ciara.

Ronan has been silent, his gaze fixed on it since he first beckoned to us, but now he speaks, and it is clear he wasn't staring in awe. "We must circle to the south. If we are close enough we can fire at least one rocket into the door. They have been careless; they have left the door open."

He is right. There is a ramp running down to the right, away from the Garde building. If we circle to the right we can come up close enough to attack. Connor seizes on the idea and immediately starts discussing the plan with Ronan and Aiden, who is carrying the rocket launcher. They agree we need to be within three hundred metres for the rockets to be effective. Connor has left me out of the conversation but I know why. He saw my reaction when seeing the hovercraft and realises there is conflict within me. I want to destroy it because I know if we do not it could be an effective tool in finding us and I want to send a message to Coin, hiding somewhere in a dark room waiting for news of my capture. But it is a powerful reminder of home.

Connor turns and issues orders to all of us. The plan is to advance to the east, moving through the woods and past the buildings. Once past them there is open ground with only a couple of hedges to provide cover for us. At the far end of the field is the road and another hedge running west to east. Niamh and I will take up positions along the road whilst Connor and Ronan continue west to the Macroom road on the far side of the next field. Aiden and Ciara will move to the middle of the hedge running between the main road and the Macroom Road. We will form a V, the point of which will be Aiden. He will fire the rockets at the hovercraft. When the Garde and soldiers attack his position the other four of us will wait until they are in the open before we attack with our guns. Failing a counter-attack we can either withdraw or advance. It is a good plan, as long as Aiden hits his target and there are not too many enemy soldiers.

We drive through the thicker woods, branches pulling at clothing as we wrestle our way downhill. Despite the tough going we make quick time and burst out the woods onto a road above the old warehouses. Everyone pulls out guns and checks that the safety catches are off. We pick our way through the debris of the buildings. Rusted metal sheets lie amongst clumps of fallen bricks. An old car, barely recognisable as a machine, stands in the middle of the road, a tree growing out the rear window. I stop walking. The buildings remind me of District 8, of the pummelled warehouses, the ill-fated hospital and President Paylor. She wasn't a President then but already she was an incredible leader. It brings back images of Gale and me launching explosive arrows from the roof of the warehouse and bringing the bombers down. And now I realise I am about to repeat the action. Only this time the hovercraft belongs to District 13, my ally in the rebellion. And I won't have the chance to film myself telling Coin I will make his life miserable, that I will come for him one day. He is smart; he will figure it out quickly, I am sure. I holster my gun and unhook my bow. I may not have explosive arrows but it feels right to use it now. I nock an arrow and increase my pace to catch up to the others.

Then we reach the edge of the low ridge, a line of trees marking the drop into the field, and see before us is nothing but empty field. What, from the height of the hill looked like a suitable hedge for cover is suddenly a broken-down stone wall with a few weeds growing over it. This is more dangerous than we initially thought. If anyone sees us as we cross the field our only option will be to retreat for cover to the buildings and then we will be at the mercy of the hovercraft. I know in those buildings we won't stand a chance. We all pause for a minute, surveying the surrounds for any sign of life. The two girls act like old hands, scanning the road and walls as if they have done this a hundred times.

Then Connor is up and running, crossing the field at speed, keeping to the low wall so that if he needs to can drop to the ground and use it for protection. The rest of us keep our weapons pointed outward. I count the seconds, one … two … three … ten ... he is a quarter of the way across. Ronan is up and running after Connor eighteen … nineteen … Aiden taps Ciara on the shoulder and she is up, sprinting faster the men who are ahead of her … twenty five … Aiden is up and hobbling more than running … Connor is nearly across now with Ronan closing on him. I wait until Connor reaches the scraggly trees lining the road before I let Niamh follow the others. "Go," I say, and Niamh is away, leaving me on my own, crouching between two birch trees than provide little cover if there is an attack now.

The open field scares me and I mean to start running when Ronan reaches the far side but somehow my legs fail and I remain in my crouch. Then Ciara is across and there are three people defending the runners. I look right and left, searching for another possible route across. What is happening to me? I can't think of a reason why I am scared. We have fought battles, I have been through the Capitol in a war. It isn't like this is a city block where traps and enemies could be hiding behind every window and door, or looking down from a rooftop, waiting for an unsuspecting opponent to come into their kill zone.

Niamh has caught up to Aiden and they keep running towards Connor's position together. Soon there will be five of our group within the safety of the treeline but I remain at the top of the field. It took Connor forty seconds to reach the safety of the other side so it should be about the same to me. There will be five people to protect me. Come on Katniss, you can do this. Three hundred metres to my right is row of trees. Perhaps I can move that way then cross the field to the road. Once across I will need to walk back up the road until I meet up with the others. That will be more than a kilometre and I know it puts us all at risk. No, I will have to go straight across. Why am I so scared? _Don't be scared, Katniss,_ I think, _take a breath, then run_. I take a deep breath and am about to launch when I hear the distinctive chop of helicopter rotors.

I press against the tree to my right, trying to work out where the helicopter is. It is flying fast, I think from the north. Aiden and Niamh are almost across, her hand wrapped around his upper arm, pulling him desperately toward Connor. He trips and I see his gun fly from his hand as he stretches his arms to cushion his fall. Niamh slips trying to keep him upright. They both roll up against the wall and lie prone, squeezing their bodies against the wall. I set down my bow and unhitch my gun. It is a semi-automatic gun, larger than a pistol but not a rifle. A rifle would be better against a helicopter, I think, hoping it will not come over the field.

Then I see it, flying over the town and south toward us. The pilot flies straight toward me and then loops to the left, circling back around to sight his best landing spot near the Garde station. The helicopter passes directly over Aiden and Niamh but the occupants must be watching the station and the flight path does not alter. A second loop around is smaller and passes to the north of our position. Then the helicopter is descending toward the field where the hovercraft sits. It lands slowly in a swirl of air, the grass and trees all leaning away from the foreign object that invades their peace. From my vantage point I see the comparison of the two aircraft. Now I understand the shock the others felt when they first say the hovercraft. The helicopter must be a tenth the size of the hulking hovercraft.

Down below me I see Niamh and Aiden crawling to safety and I am up, bow in one hand, gun in the other, running toward the others. I keep low and close to the wall, not sure if there are any other helicopters. When I reach the spot where Aiden fell I see his gun and swerve to pick it up without breaking stride. Then I am at the trees, dropping to me knees between Connor and Ronan, breathing heavily from the sprint.

"How did you know about the helicopter?" asks Connor.

So he thinks my hesitation was deliberate. Do I tell him I was scared, that I didn't know about the helicopter, that I was lucky. Or was it not luck? Perhaps I heard the rotors before they were fully audible, or perhaps it was instinct, the instinct of a hunter. All the years I have spent hunting in the woods, first with my father, who taught me the craft, to my time with Gale, learning my own strengths, honing my skills, to peaceful days on my own when Peeta was painting or the children were at school, have enhanced my senses, enhanced my awareness of nature and the world around me. It is strange, though, that as soon as the helicopter landed I was no longer afraid to make the dash. I smile at Connor, not saying a word. Let him make up his own mind.

"We have to change our plan, there are two aircraft now. The helicopter landed between the hedge and the hovercraft," I say.

Aiden sidles past Ronan, "I can hit two if I have a clear view of each."

"I cannot hear the helicopter engine. I think they have shut down. It will take them a long time to lift off, focus on the beast," says Ronan.

"Use three rockets for the big one, then the last one for the helicopter. We will make sure you have time," says Connor, "So our plan stays the same." Again I see Connor doesn't trust me, which is a far cry from our previous engagements with the Union. I want to say something but I cannot in front of the others.

We cross the road one at a time, careful to look out for travellers even though not many people travel much in Ireland anymore, focussed as they are on producing food and basic items needed for survival. Once across we spread out to our assigned positions. I move north toward our target and the town, slightly exposed as the hedgerow between the road and field is sparse. I watch north and south whilst I search for a good position for Niamh. A type of poplar stands tall with blackthorn and gorse surrounding it. I deposit Niamh safely in a gap that affords a view of the field that slopes up and away from us, as well as providing substantial cover from the road. At first I think Niamh should have been send to the other side of the field but then, through a gap in the hedge at the other side of the field I see some houses that would provide additional threat. No, Connor was correct to place Niamh and me on this side.

I continue north along the road another fifty metres until I find another hiding place amongst some gorse. I am at least halfway to the hovercraft and need to ensure they do not see me before the attack starts. I find a gap between four prickly shrubs that looks out on the field. There is a view of the field to the north as well as south to where Aiden should be. I can use my bow as well since there is no tree near me. I lay four arrows out in front of me and test the tension of the bow. Fortunately the days of rain and moisture have not stretched the string.

The hovercraft dominates the vista to the north. It is higher than the building behind it and much larger than the helicopter in front of it. The dark grey exterior and bright red paint make it even more threatening than from afar. A cannon turret is visible above the door. I think of the launches for the Hunger Games and the ladders that we were stuck to with an electric current to lift us up into the craft. I always wondered how many Tributes jumped to their death before they added that feature. And I think of the two hovercraft that carried us to Ireland, the explosions that rocked and forever altered my life. What will happen to this one? Perhaps a huge explosion, although most likely some small points of damage. It seems too large for a rocket to destroy it. If only we had one, I could make it back to Panem.

I check the other side of the field and the hedge at the end of it. I see Ronan opposite Niamh, setting himself for the inevitable attack from the Garde station. Further back I see Aiden and Ciara. He has shouldered the launcher with a rocket already loaded. Ciara stands next to him with another, standing ready to load. Now we wait for Connor to reach his position and signal the attack.

The circular emblem catches my eye. Two laurel wreaths curl from the base of a circle up to the District. Inside the inner circle a graphic of graphite, rockets and the atom. A smaller circle underneath encompasses the number 13. Even though Panem did away with District numbers 13 have retained theirs, harking back to a time before our democratic government. Am I any different to them then? I keep using 12 and District 12, unlike others who call our District Appalachia. I haven't moved on from the past either. District 13 and me, locked in the regret and pain of a rebellion than didn't turn out the way we needed it to, wishing for a different outcome. I thought I knew the outcome I wanted but now I am not sure.

What I do know is that they have the power and the ability to fly between Panem and District 13 and I don't. If only I had a hovercraft like the one we are about to destroy, I would be able to fly home and rally the Districts to fight Coin, just as I am doing now, here in Ireland, fighting against people that want to control everyone else. I think that is my issue with dictators, they want power and control. With power and control comes wealth and status, two things I never wanted. All I want now is a way home so I can protect my family and defeat Coin. After that I can come back to Ireland and really take on the Union.

Connor appears opposite me, wedged into the hedgerow. I realise that we are all vulnerable in the hedgerows. To extricate ourselves we need to step into the field as there is no retreat to the roads. That is another weak point, that soldiers may come down the roads and outflank us. Hopefully the plan works as we want. Connor waves back toward Aiden, who stands and hefts the rocket launcher onto his shoulder. Ciara bravely stands with him. He is about to attack the only hovercraft in Ireland.

Then I realise the hovercraft could be my way home. If we could commandeer it I could be back in Panem in a day. It seems to have the freedom of the skies here so the Union would not stop it and we could skirt District 13, approaching Panem further south. With a cloaking device they wouldn't even see us. We need a change of plan. I can go home. I step out of my position and scream at Aiden to stop. My feet propel me forward and I am waving and shouting when I see the puff of smoke around Aiden, followed immediately by the rush of the rocket as it rips past me toward the target, my only way home, trapping me here in Ireland again.


	14. Chapter 14

Burning bridges

I stop running, sliding on the damp soil, then swivel to catch sight of the rocket. Is it going to hit? It is lost from sight against the background of hedgerow, helicopter and hovercraft. Then I see it, arcing toward the hovercraft. It strikes to the right of the door, exploding on impact near the right engine. The sound of the explosion reaches me a second after I see it, and the result is both underwhelming and intense. The physical aspect is nothing compared to the sound of my own hovercraft exploding but it pounds deep into my being. I stand motionless in the open, staring at the smoke billowing around the engine, when another rocket scorches past me.

This time the rocket flies straight into the door, burying itself forever in the bowels of the machine. Aiden's has adjusted his aim to perfection. The explosion is muted this time, a dull thump echoing out. Not even a flash shows the result. But moments later a second explosion blows pieces of the hovercraft in all directions. Chunks of metal shoot off in all directions, propelled by a flash of yellow flame and a deafening roar. I see a piece slam into the helicopter, shredding the windows and rotor, eliminating the threat of airborne retaliation, at least for now. Why did the hovercraft explode? The fuel is water before it is processed so it wouldn't explode. The rocket must have set off the armoury, it is the only explanation.

Smaller bits of the craft start landing closer to my position. Coming to my senses I realise I am still visible in the middle of the field so I regain some composure and make it back to where I left my arrows. I wait for the soldiers to come out. How will they know where the attack came from? Out of the building stream at least ten. Some are dressed in the dark Union uniforms whilst others wear the lighter grey of District 13. They split up and spread in three directions, looking for their attackers.

I hold three arrows in my bow hand and set the other. When they approach us I will be able to shoot four quick arrows, and then swap to the gun. The soldiers are still milling around, looking at the damage and trying to assess the direction of the attack. I think of firing the arrows now but the range is possibly too far for the bow I have. Then I hear a shout and they are looking toward us. Connor has broken cover and is running toward Aiden. My heart stops as bullets kick up the turf near him. I want to scream and tell him to run faster. No, hide. Get out of sight! Find cover. I can't lose him now!

He has set himself as bait, I realise. In which case it is up to me to stop the soldiers. He still has faith in me, otherwise he would not have broken cover. If we stayed hidden we could have escaped later. Maybe. This way our fate is decided, either way . I face the oncoming soldiers, stand and set my position, side on to the direction of the enemy. I pull the bowstring, feeling the muscles in my back strain. How long since I fired the bow? It must be two weeks at least. The first arrow I shoot higher than normal due to the distance, then rapidly loose the next three, mimicking the angle of the first. Then I start pulling arrows from my quiver, shooting one at a time. By the time I fire the fifth arrow the first one strikes a hundred metres away, pegging into the ground in front of the closely grouped soldiers. Two of the next three all hit as soldiers stop in shock at being attacked with an arrow. All of them go down, two from injuries, the rest in fear or self-protection. My other arrows start dropping amongst them and I hear at least two more cries of pain.

I shoot my last arrow and slip the bow over my shoulder, switching to the gun. This will reveal my position but with the soldiers all prone I can probably retreat if they start to return fire. Another rocket rasps through the air and explodes amongst the group. More screams. I am closest to the group so I break cover and run at them, firing my semi-automatic at any movement I see. A dark grey uniform is up and running back toward the building but it spasms violently, stumbles and then collapses, the dark grey darkening further as blood spreads across it.

It wasn't me that shot the soldier. I glance right and see Ronan sprinting alongside me, tiny flames and smoke erupting from his short-barrelled machine gun. Further behind him are Connor and Ciara. They are trying to catch up but Ronan is too fast. I had a head start on him and he has already passed me. I shout his name, trying to slow him down. The others behind him will not be able shoot as he is in their firing line. Ronan is either unable to hear me or decides to ignore me. He is close to the group of bodies on the ground, firing, reloading his magazine, and firing again. He comes to a halt a few metres from the first body and fires a single shot, then another at the next body, making sure they are dead. It is a gruesome sight. He is executing them.

I reach him first but he doesn't hear me again so I slam into him, knocking him off-balance. He instinctively swings toward the perceived threat so I step up to him, inside the arc of the gun, nullifying it.

"Stop, Ronan, they are dead. They are dead!" I shout at him. His body jerks as if waking from a trance, and he relaxes his grip on the gun, allowing the barrel to point at the ground. He nods, wide-eyed and panting, as Connor and Ciara arrive.

"It's done," says Connor, putting his hand on Ronan's shoulder. Ronan seems to relax at the touch so Connor approaches the bodies, surveying the carnage, checking for signs of life.

Ciara's gaze follows him then drops to the corpses on the ground, and immediately turns to retch, dropping to her knees as the convulsions course through her. Ronan, Connor and I are immune to the death now. I have been hunting since I was ten, when my father took me into the woods for the first time. I remember finding a snared rabbit and crying when he snapped its neck, putting it out of its misery he said. _How a person could kill such a beautiful creature I did not know_, I thought that day. I also remember doing the same after my father perished in the mine accident and thinking only that we would eat that night. That is when the coldness of life struck home. Life is about survival. Maybe not for the pampered dears in the Capitol, but certainly for people like me, forever hungry and desperate, wondering where our next meal would come from. All the while rich people fattened their already-plump bodies with excessive food, indulging in gluttony as a past-time. I doubt they ever gave a thought to the source of their meat. The Hunger Games struck an even deeper cut to my sensibility, where powerful people forced the less-fortunate to kill each other. The rebellion against Snow took away any thought I had for the sanctity of life. And now I am part of a second rebellion where death at the hands of the enemy is a real possibility, unless I kill first.

Still, I understand her horror so I crouch down next to her, my hand on her back. I rub softly in circles until she straightens. I look down the field where Aiden is approaching. Smoke from the gunfire lingers, as if deciding whether it is lighter or heavier than the air. "Where's Niamh?" asks Ciara. I cannot see her! She must still be hiding where I stationed her. I shout her name to Aiden and point to the spot. He diverts his path and gestures with a thumb as he reaches the hedgerow to show she is there and alright. She may be alive but she is probably scared and in shock. The sisters were so brave before the fight. Now the reality will sink in. They will be subdued for a few days. Welcome to the rebellion!

"Katniss," calls Connor, pointing to the Garde station. The smoke wafts between us, searing my nostrils and lungs with chemical acid. It creates a surreal image, in contrast to the clear skies we had coming here. Bodies of the soldiers, fragments of metal, some burning, litter the field. We need to finish the job; it is too risky leaving anyone behind. I tell Ciara to go to her sister and join my two original companions. Together we advance, spreading out and reloading our guns. I glance despairingly at the wreckage of the two aircraft, especially the hovercraft from Panem. It is another link between Panem and me that has been destroyed, another bridge across the water that I can no longer use.

With the exception of my crude Mockingjay the building is pristine in its newness, in stark contrast to the devastation strewn across the paddock. It taunts me, a message from the Union that it will survive no matter what I do. It hints at the futility of rebellion. Then I have a thought, and I know what we can do with the last rocket.


	15. Chapter 15

Day 362 - Rain

Rainwater cascades over the edge of the farmhouse roof, creating a curtain that obscures everything before me. The curtain is like the steel bars of a prison, cutting me off from the outside world. The picturesque valley we hiked up is invisible to me. All I can see is the translucent, shimmering curtain and beyond that the grey rain.

After three solid days of rain the fresh fragrance of the first falls has vanished, replaced by the soggy smell of sod. The ground has absorbed all the water it can and now the drops pool and run, creating rivulets that meander through the grass and mud, uniting to create larger streams. I am sure that the streams will coalesce further down the slope to form even larger rivers, irresistible in their quest for lower ground. I think of the destruction of the Garde station. If only it were a tiny rivulet, a single act of defiance, soon to join up with more rivulets. Then the rivulets will join to become streams and rivers, washing away the Union in a flood.

It is a nice idea but I am doubtful. Perhaps the loss of the hovercraft has made me negative but I cannot help feeling this is all pointless. Six people cannot fight the Union. We can kill soldiers and blow up a building but the Union flows on. Perhaps the great river that is the Union will absorb the small rivulets of rebellion, never to be seen again, a brief blip in history.

Two days ago I sat on a flat rock in the rain, considering what the rest of my life would be like on these islands of Ireland. Should I stop fighting? Start a life with Connor on a farm somewhere, abandoning all hope of a return to Panem. The destruction of the hovercraft was a massive blow to my hopes of a flight home. Coin will be very careful before allowing another of his hovercraft to land and risk assault. There is no chance to capture one now. Connor is a good man, I could easily settle with him. Would he settle though? His first passion is the freedom of Ireland. Despite the attention he gives me I have no doubt he would struggle to farm, even with me by his side. It was a bad day for me. I sat on the rock for six hours. Every now and then I would move just enough so that the others would know I was still alive and to leave me alone. Aiden made the mistake of coming out to me once but my response to his presence left little doubt in his mind that I wanted to be alone. Despair had me fast in its grip.

Then yesterday my mood swung and I spent the day sitting under the eaves, outside and away from the others, but dry. I sat for hours considering all my options that did not involve surrendering to my fate. Connor and I would rally Ireland and force the Union to give up on the country. We would cross the seas to Europe, where they have electricity, and start a full-scale rebellion, destroying not only the Union troops but the Union itself, bringing independence to all the member states. I would be a hero, they would give me a plane to fly home to my family, who would welcome me home with tears and hugs and laughter, and more hugs. I would have a hot shower and be clean for the first time in years, and sleep in sheer nightclothes under a warm and comforting down duvet on a welcoming mattress and pillows. I even briefly considered handing myself over to the Union. They would see me as too much trouble and would send me back to Coin in District 13 where I would kill him and make it back to my family.

The last three nights I have barely spoken a work to any of my companions, choosing rather to stare at the fire and sleep early, separate from everyone, especially Connor. After the last few nights where we slept side by side, indeed at some points in an embrace, he would certainly be justified to ask what is going on. Instead he has been quiet and left me to myself.

Today is different though. The vacillation of the previous two days has tempered into logical decision-making, tinged with negativity from the realisation Ireland is now my home. I owe it to myself and my friends to accept my future. I have dropped the flights of fancy and returned to what I am best at, which is making clear strategic decisions. Whatever I decide, I cannot succeed alone. I need other people. Many of the people I need are with me now.

Connor and Ronan are like my family here. We have been together for a year, first on the Rock and then as a guerrilla unit. We are good together, especially Connor and me. We are not just cohorts, although I do not know how far our relationship can or will progress. Do I hold onto the image of Peeta in the vain hope of one day returning to Panem? The last two days have convinced me there is no going back, that I must move on and start a new life here. I know Connor wants that as well, fighting for independence together. I just need wait until lose the image of Peeta in my mind before I commit to him completely. It is hard though, when I close my eyes I can faintly see Peeta's eyes and smile in the residual light that dances under my eyelids.

There are others such as Shar and Farrell. Shar is a concrete link to Panem, and I promised her I would take her back there. Previously I intended keeping that promise, regardless how long it took. But now I cannot and will have to break the news gently. I need her with me though, especially after losing Isabella, and Jewel before her. Farrell is the reason I am here but he is resourceful and I am sure he will try to help me home. Until that day comes, which will most likely be years away, I must dedicate myself to raising the Irish people, pulling them into a fight they may not all want. They may not want the fight but I am convinced they want freedom and a better life than this. Fighting may inevitably be futile but I cannot sit by and do nothing.

A boot squelches in the waterlogged turf to my right but I continue staring out at the endless rainfall. It is Ronan. He joins me on the unsteady wooden bench, leaning back against the rough whitewashed wall. His deep, slow nasal breathing soothes me, a reminder that staying calm is a choice. No need to panic or become emotional about days that have yet to come. I edge over and lean against him, wondering if I would have done this when my own son was older and I was an old woman in need of comfort. His arm wraps around me as he absorbs my tension.

"You are scaring the others," he says after a while.

"Even Connor?"

"No. The other three. Connor and I understand. You will come in when you are ready and tell us what you want. You are strong. We know you will pull yourself together. The others, well, the others don't know you. They need leadership now. Aiden is OK, he is curious about our relationships. The girls though. Well, they need you. You are a woman. They have spoken much about you. Despite the shock of Millstreet they say they want to be like you… You can't sit out here for another three days."

I ponder his words, knowing he is correct. "Do you think it is going to stop raining?"

"I think it will stop when you want it to."

His unfathomable words confuse me and I spend time trying to extract meaning from them. Surely he cannot mean that I can control the weather. Does he mean that I have the ability to change my future, or perhaps the future of Ireland? Or maybe his meaning is more mundane, that I can stop sitting in the rain whenever I choose. No, he never is mundane. He is a serious young man, focussed and determined. There is nothing frivolous about him. He has stayed with Connor and me all this time, never complaining about the risks, never complaining of the life we have chosen for him.

"Ciara is nice," I offer, the only reply being a non-committal grunt.

"Aah, Niamh then," I add, this time without a response. I look at Ronan for the first time since he joined me. "Niamh?" I repeat, and a flush on his face tells me my arrow has hit the mark dead-centre. "She is pretty, maybe she likes you too. Wait until we reach Farrell."

He only nods. Now the conversation is about him he has lost his tongue, so we sit quietly for a while until I realise I can see parts of the valley. The raining is easing up where we sit but has stopped further down the valley. We look at each other and start laughing. We cannot stop it. I laugh until tears smear my vision and my jaw hurts. Ronan winces as he holds his waist, unable to stop the laughter despite the stitch he obviously has. Connor rounds the corner and catches our infectious laughter, although he is not laughing about the same thing Ronan and I are.

The rain ceases and the mist slowly lifts, exposing the verdant valley running south from the abandoned farmhouse. Our laughter finally subsides and when the others join us outside I hug them one at a time, Connor last. I hold that hug the longest, communicating so much without words or expressions. He squeezes back with complete commitment until I let go.

"We must go to Farrell, we have plans to make, we need reinforcements," I say, and all I can see is the peace in Connor's eyes, knowing I am committing to Ireland, to our sedition, and perhaps to him.


	16. Chapter 16

Day 364 - Carran

Aiden hobbles over the crest of the final hill, leading our party down toward what I hope will be a long-term base. Ronan keeps trying to assist him but Aiden bats him away, cursing at assumptions that age is debilitating and that we homeless people are used to walking a hundred kilometres. He is right. Except for the two days with the trucks Ronan, Connor and I have walked everywhere in the last few months. Constant physical exertion has toned our muscles, making us lean and strong.

Ahead of us, at the base of the slope, lies a small village. It is the busiest village I have seen in Ireland. Despite the movement there seems an order to it. There is structure and organisation. Small houses, some with thatch roofs, some with wood, and others with slate, line the road on both sides. Most are white, or off-white, whilst others stand grey, bare of even a coat of paint. Most activity can be seen further along the road, centred in a circular group of structures that must be a market. Many of the structures do not have walls and hundreds of people are moving from one to another. Each structure has goods on tables but we are too far to make out what they are.

We descend into the village and approach the market. Before we make it to the edge of the market four men walk toward us. By the men's gait I can see their intent is not welcoming. This part of Ireland may not be friendly to the Union but it seems the people are not friendly to strangers either. I can understand why. Some of us are carrying weapons and pose a threat any people, not just the peaceful ones. Fortunately one, a man who looks amazingly similar to my old friend Gale, recognises Aiden and calls his name.

Aiden knows the men and they greet each other warmly, each clasping the right forearm of the other with his right hand and placing the left hand on the bind. The two men exchange quiet words in Irish as the other three men watch our group closely. I doubt the four of them could take on Connor, Ronan and me in a fight but we are not here to fight so I step in front of the others, trying to show the men we are not a threat. Men rarely see a woman as a physical threat.

"Come on, they will take us to Farrell's house, to show the others we are friendly," says Aiden and, without further introductions or explanation, starts to walk toward the market, his hand resting on the shoulder of his taller companion. Despite Aiden's assumption the villagers all stop as our group proceed through the market. All the noise of the market ceases. The silence flows across the crowds. Bargaining ceases, patrons at food stalls stop eating, many stall-holders reach under their jackets or tables for what I assume are weapons. Anyone in the street that passes through the market step off to the side, providing a clear avenue for us.

The quiet is broken by a happy shout from a stall on our right. "Connor!" I see a man step out into the clear space ahead of us. He looks familiar but I cannot place him. His small frame supports very little excess weight. He is like one of the small men in the mines that were used to burrow rescue tunnels when there was a collapse. Connor steps across to him and there is a quick greeting that is not as friendly as Aiden's minutes before.

Connor turns to me, "Katniss, do you remember Connor O'Kane?" he asks tentatively. That is it! The second Connor. The one who wanted to leave me back at Farrell's old house, leave me to fend for myself.

"Yes, I remember, at Aiden's house. How are you?"

"Fair to middling. You look … different," is all he can manage. He must feel awkward after his comments at Aiden's house. He will feel even more awkward when he hears how we have been fighting the Union.

Aiden ushers us onward. Our group has swelled to eleven now as our escort and O'Kane walk with us. The people in the market don't resume their activity as we walk, and I am not surprised. We are, after all, a ragtag mob compared to them. The people are generally dressed in new, quality clothing and well-made shoes. The women have clean dresses and thick, homespun coats. Some wear bonnets against the chill. The men have woollen pants and jackets, with thick coats that undoubtedly wear well.

As we pass beyond the market a young man passes us and sprints as fast as his boots allow. He looks back two or three times as he goes, amazed by the spectacle our group presents. I cannot imagine this peaceful village experiencing many bands like ours, even in a country with no modern technology. The messenger must be going to warn someone we are on our way. I assume it is Farrell, hope it is Farrell.

Further along the road a sound catches my attention, something I have not heard for a long time. I walk faster, the desire to see the source of the sound overwhelming me. Everyone else hurries along the smooth, paved road to catch up as I reach a low stone fence that borders a school. The children are all dressed in grey and white uniforms. It must be a break between lessons because they are all running around the school grounds, playing games in small groups. Some are running around after each other, some are playing a jumping game, hopping on one foot along a ladder chalked on the paving. A group of girls near the wall have a rope. Two of them swing it in a large swooping arc as others run through the arc, skipping over it as it passes low over the ground. The noise that caught my attention was laughter. There has been a vast lack of laughter in my life, especially that of children. Loss overloads my senses as I try to imagine remember Jewel and Stone wrestling on the couch, or chasing each other up and down the stairs of the house, throwing snowballs or sledding with Peeta.

I watch the children play until a bell chimes, breaking my reverie. Connor is close to me, his hand on the nape of my neck, rubbing softly, perhaps in empathy. The tears in my eyes need wiping but not in front of the others so I manage to utter "Let's go," without croaking, and as they all move off in front of me I wipe the tears with my soiled coat sleeve. I cannot see but I doubt wiping them away will hide the tracks from my red-rimmed eyes down my wind-blushed cheeks.

We resume our journey toward a small white-walled house offset twenty metres to the right of the road about two hundred metres away. The young man has reached the door and I can hear the pounding on the door even from where we traipse up the road. A murmur draws my attention and when I look back toward the market I see the whole village following our group. The children from the school have joined the crowd as well. They are so orderly and civilised, walking quietly so that it took a while to realise they were there. We must be a strange group indeed.

Up ahead I see a man exit the residence where the young man was knocking and can immediately see it is Farrell, walking along the path. I can see it is his giant frame despite the drastic change in his appearance from when I last saw him, or at least so far as I remember. I don't know what to think of the meeting. I have been waiting, wondering and searching for so long. Now that we are here it is almost a let-down. I feel no excitement or apprehension. Nothing. Just blank. Then I realise he is not who I was searching for, it was Shar. Where is she?

We are at the end of the small pathway leading to the house when we meet. Aiden lengthens his ungainly stride to edge past everyone else and makes it to Farrell first. They shake hands and then Farrell pulls him into a bear hug. Then he is shaking hands with Connor who introduces him first to Ronan and then the sisters. He has deliberately bypassed me to meet the others but now he turns to face me. Saving the best for last, perhaps. He stretches his long arms out and I step forward into his huge hug. For such a tall man he is remarkably gentle but the warmth in his embrace suddenly opens a floodgate to my emotions and I struggle to hold back my tears. I feel like I am safe, like I am home. I hug him back, although my arms barely make it around him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and the tears win the battle, bursting out in triumph. I clench him harder, trying to stop the tears, and start to win back ground. He holds me a while longer but then releases me and steps back to look down at my face.

"We heard about Millstreet. A rousing piece of work."

"It wasn't just me," I saw, nodding toward my companions.

"The picture you drew…"

"The Mockingjay…"

"It ignited the town. People are talking."

"Then perhaps your wish of twenty-five years is granted," I offer with a smile.

He returns the smile and then looks past me to the large crowd that has gathered. They are quietly watching us, enthralled and expectant. A large grey rock stands alongside the pathway. Farrell helps me stand on the rock so that I am at his height and everyone can see me.

"Daoine, is é seo an bhean a dúirt mé tú de. Is é seo an Katniss Everdeen."

Then something unexpected happens; they all start clapping. There are no voices, just clapping. The scene is surreal for me. I have done nothing for these people, have never met them, but they are applauding me. The faces stare back at me as I scan the crowd. Young and old, male and female, they all have the same look, as if they are looking at their saviour. Can I handle the weight they have placed on my shoulders? And why me? Why not Connor, or Farrell. Ronan is young, good looking and a fighter. Surely they want a local leader.

I notice a young couple standing to my right. Unlike the rest of the crowd they have come down the road from the direction opposite the town. They are not applauding like the others. Instead they stand, hand in hand, staring at me with broad smiles. He is well-built, average height, with light-grey eyes and dark hair. She is dressed like the rest of the townswomen but has a scarf over her head for warmth.

"Say something," says Farrell, drawing my attention back to the crowd.

"I can't speak Irish, only one or two words," I attempt the excuse but he tells me they all understand English. Turning to the crowd I think of what to say but the couple catches my eye again. I know them.

"Thank you, everyone, for the welcome..." I don't know many people in Ireland, how can I know this couple? "It has been a tough road, made easier by seeing so many friendly faces…" Farrell, Connor, Siobhan, Thomas, I doubt anyone else escaped from the Rock. "I hope we can stay awhile, as long as we do not bring trouble for you. Your town is a wonderful place…" Aiden, Ailin… Ailin! The man is Ailin. And the woman? Shar. It is Shar! I struggle to say anything else to the expectant crowd, but manage "Thank you," before I leap off the rock and run to her, bursting into tears again as I pull her to me, and this time I don't care who sees.


	17. Chapter 17

Bliss

The double-storeyed house where we will stay is a world away from anything I have seen in Ireland. It stands in the middle of a row of identical buildings along the right side of the road. The exterior is modern and lacks the coat of age encountered in the rest of the country. Wooden shutters frame the multi-paned windows and, except for the waterproofing peat, the roof thatching still retains the golden colour of the original grass. We enter through the stable-style door, carved with intricate Irish patterns. The interior is clean and new, the fittings expertly crafted. Fresh paint coats the walls and the stained wood and polished leather furniture still has a fresh fragrance. Large windows allow light to flood the rooms. It is much warmer inside than out, even cosy.

Shar and Ailin have led our group to the house, informing us that we will be staying here. They didn't have enough space for Ciara and Niamh but there was a lodge for single women back toward the village. When I asked Shar where she stayed she hesitated before saying this house. Shar holding Ailin's hand outside Farrell's house was one thing but now I understand she is staying with him shocks me. She will have an interesting story to convey later on, when we escape the locals and have time together, just the two of us. For now I do not resist as they herd us about.

We shuck our coats and Shar leads me excitedly up the thin staircase, leaving the men to congregate in the front room that looks a little like our family room back in Victor's Village. At the back of the top storey are two rooms, a bedroom and a small room with a toilet, sink and, my heart flutters, a shower cubicle. I hope it has hot water. I never feel quite clean with cold water; using hot water is the only way I feel properly clean.

"You will stay here, Connor and … your other friend …" Her voice is different, almost Irish but not quite. There are still the remnants of a Panem accent.

"Ronan," I prompt.

"Yes, Ronan, they have their own rooms facing the front of the house." She seems to be a proud hostess, proud that everyone has their own room to sleep in.

"Why are we not in the lodges with the other single people?"

"Why? Well, you are too important. Aiden and Ailin have travelled regularly to Cork to check for signs you were there. When Farrell told everyone how important you were in Panem they came to me to ask questions. Everyone knows what you did for Panem. I told them about the Hunger Games, the rebellion, that your husband is a Senator, and that you are very kind but still strong and tough." She blushes at the last comments.

"What about Connor and Ronan?" I ask.

"Connor is known by many, he is a leader. They would not put him in a lodge. Aiden says Ronan must stay with you and Connor."

I am glad about that. We have become very close, the three of us, over the last year. Shar steps into my allocated quarters and I follow.

The room is small, with light blue walls, which lends tranquillity to the room. I can feel tension draining away through my boots. A single bed lies against the left wall and a closet stands in the far right corner near an oblong window. I have no idea what I would put in it. All I have is the clothes I am wearing. The rest I left at Laragh, fully expecting to return there. Other than the bed and closet there is no furnishing. A thick braided rug of dark blue and cream stripes covers most of the wooden floor.

"Do you want to wash?" Shar asks, confirming what I felt when I saw the cleanliness of the house. This house has a woman's touch. "We have a shower room here, and the water is hot. The women in the village make soap and an herbal shampoo." I must smell bad; a mix of trail sweat, dampness, dirt and blood. But it takes another woman to know how important cleanliness is. My response is obvious and, after I have dropped my weapons on the bed, Shar pulls me by my hand to the next room. She shows me how the two levers in the shower cubicle control the heat and volume of water and then steps out the room. "Enjoy," she says, as she closes the door.

I think of Connor's bath back in Laragh. Then, he went to so much effort heating the water whereas now I am about to stand under hot running water for the first time since we escaped the Rock and it seems effortless. How they have rigged this I do not know but I am grateful. I am sure I will find out later, but for now I accept the gift that this is. I shed my sticky clothes and step into the shower, manipulating the levers awkwardly. Cold water sprays out at me and I am out the cubicle with a small scream. I am more circumspect when I try again, leaning into the shower and adjusting the levers until I achieve the perfect balance of heat and power. Only then do I step under the steaming stream of water, and somewhere between my aahs one word springs clear: bliss.


	18. Chapter 18

Farrell

When I step out the shower I realise Shar has supplied everything I need to expunge the last residue of two weeks on the road, without me hearing her enter and exit the room. A soft off-white towel hangs on a wooden hook alongside the cubicle so I dry myself thoroughly before dressing. It takes fifteen minutes to detangle my hair with a wooden comb. Then I spot a horsehair toothbrush and a jar of powder next to it that must be toothpaste. Some mint in the paste improves the flavour and I set about cleaning my teeth for the first time since I left Laragh. She has appropriated my soiled clothes, and left a set of fresh clothes on a hook above the spot I left mine. I don a long woollen skirt, a cotton blouse, a short jacket of mohair and rawhide boots that are a size too large.

The style of clothes would not be my first choice. The last time I wore a dress was at the decadent party in the Capitol. That dress was exquisite, designed with modern materials to accentuate curves and makes each movement a dance. Since then I have worn pants or leggings, with shirts and knee-length jackets in winter, which for raids and travel are practical, allowing unencumbered movement and very little excess material to catch on objects. Since my early youth, hunting to find my family food, pants have been my apparel of choice. For now, however, I am genuinely grateful for the luxury of cleanliness; style is secondary.

No-one is around when I exit the shower room so I head downstairs. The others are still in the front room, speaking in Irish but when I enter the room the conversation immediately ceases. The reaction of the group at seeing me dressed as I am is unexpected. Shar is smiling, full of pride that she has helped me transform back into the woman she knew before we came here. Farrell, Aiden and Ailin do not know me well but recognise the change from when I first arrived here. Connor and Ronan are staring though, as if I have morphed into a complete stranger. The reaction of the last two makes me giggle girlishly and that triggers the others.

"Wow, you look … wow," Connor stutters amidst the laughs, before anyone else can say anything.

"Well, Shar is an angel. She gave me everything I needed to clean up," I say, trying to deflect the attention away from me, without success.

"Well, you clean up beautiful," adds Farrell, "I think the rest of this group need to take your lead."

"We can only clean ourselves, we cannot hope to take a room's attention," says Connor.

"Clean is good enough, we can't have you smelling like this," suggests Farrell light-heartedly.

Shar invites Connor to use the facilities next and, as they climb the stairs I hear her asking what size clothing and shoes he wears. Farrell offering me some refreshments so I follow him to the kitchen at the rear of the house, leaving Ronan and Ailin to make better acquaintance.

The kitchen is spacious but cosy and warmer than the other rooms. There are cupboards and shelves along two walls. Curtains rather than doors hide the contents of the cupboards from view. The shelves hold plates, cups, bowls, saucers, all white with blue patterns, the quality of which immediately reminds me of the Capitol. We certainly did not have anything that delicate in District 12. The wash sink has taps that provide running water, which Farrell uses to fill a kettle. Pots and pans hang from a girder suspended over the cooking area. Farrell places the kettle on a wood-fired stove that dominates the right wall. In the centre of the room is a white rectangular table, which is large enough to seat six people. The kitchen must be the heart of this house in winter as the stove warms it.

I take a seat at the table whilst Farrell goes about preparing cha. We say nothing as he makes the cha but the silence is comforting. The experience is reminiscent of the day he did the same for me at Aiden's house, the day after the rescued me from the truck taking me to the Rock. His slow but deliberate movements soothe me, taking my mind off the last two vigorous weeks. Strangely no one else enters the room. Perhaps they think Farrell and I need time alone. Farrell joins me at the table with two ceramic mugs of cha. We sip the hot liquid, making small slurping noises.

"This place … Carran? … is amazing," I offer.

"Yes, they have built up a wonderful community. We are blessed to be allowed to stay," he replies.

"Why wouldn't you be?" I ask, surprised by his answer.

"The people who started this community, they are very Irish, they shun English, they evict anyone who is not against the Union. Not blatantly, but subtly. The Union is not welcome here. One of the elders is an old friend of mine. When Aiden and I arrived here with Ailin and Shar they knew our history and allowed us to stay. They were curious about Shar, until I explained about the two of you. Once they heard the story she was welcomed with open arms."

"Shar ... She looks happy … with Ailin …"  
"Aaah. You noticed. I guess they don't keep it secret. That is something you can ask her about. It is not the place of an old man to talk of love and youth. But yes, she is happy."

I resolve to take Shar aside for a long talk when the chance presents but for now I am interested in Carran, so I press Farrell further. "Everything is so organised here."

"Yes, they … we … have built a something special here. We have found elders, those who were adults before we lost electricity, and brought them here to build with knowledge that is no longer taught at schools. They chose Carran for a number of reasons. It is on a small island, not the main one. The people here resist the Union albeit passively. It also looks like a wasteland but in fact has an abundance of resources. You will see when I show you around. We have secrets here. We are building for an Irish future."

"So are you an elder?" I say, teasingly.

"Hah! I may have known electricity, but I am far from old, if that is what you mean!" he retorts, but I know he is well respected, as an elder should be.

"How do you have running water though, without electricity?"

"Behind the village, up in the mountains, the Burran they are called, there are turloughs. They are lakes that rise and fall with the rains. The rock underneath is porous limestone. Water flows in to the spaces underground and dams up at narrow exit points, backing up and flooding the lakes. Then as the water drains so the lake drains as well. One of the elders used the concept and built dams in the mountains and aqueducts to Carran. The aqueducts carry water to the village reservoir. At each house double metal pipes, one inside the other, have burners at the base. The heat goes up the inner pipe, the water flows down the larger one. Instant hot water. No electronics needed, it is all mechanical. It really is very clever. They have even designed a system to generate electricity using the flowing water. We only use the electricity for lighting at night when they fill the lower reservoir."

"I would love to see it all," I say.

"And you shall. But first, how are you? Tell me about the last year." Farrell's interest is sincere and I find it easy talking to him. His genuine concern for me is similar to that of my father. My memories of my youth are strangely stronger than those of my last few years. I can remember days learning from my father in the woods, I can remember every day after his death. I cannot remember much of the days, weeks, months, before I left on this mission. The reverse should be true and it scares me it is not. Why can I not remember what I did with my family? Is it because I do not care about them? Perhaps I am blocking the pain of the memories.

I launch into a review of my journey from the day we separated at the farmhouse. When I talk about the Rock Farrell asks a number of questions, all with the intent of learning about the structure and the people. He asks for as many names as I can remember but I know Connor and Ronan will be better at listing the inmates. I was not very friendly to my fellow prisoners. When I mention Cronan Farrell's eyes widen.

"Cronan Magee?" he asks.

"Um, I don't know. He was an old man who tended gardens there. He helped us escape." I am embarrassed that I do not know his surname. He befriended me and helped me escape; I should know his surname.

"What else can you tell me about him?" Farrell persists.

"He loved gardening, and his wife. She was the love of his life. He hoped she was still alive. Oh, he had a daughter, her name was …"  
"Becca?" Farrell prompts.

"Rebecca. He said Reb... Oh," I suddenly realise Becca is short for Rebecca and Farrell was married to a Becca. "Was she… his daughter… was she your wife?"

Farrell sits stunned. The reminder of his past must hurt him. Like Cronan without his wife, or me without Peeta. Except Farrell doesn't know what happened to Becca. Cronan is a reminder of that and a slender link who is out of reach. I have seen this before, felt it before. When you have lost someone you love sometimes it dampens the pain to share it with another person. I know, because I couldn't release the pain I felt at Prim's death until I finally called my mother. And we wept together, and in the tears we found comfort, that we were not alone in our grief, that we were not irrational. Has Farrell had that chance? From what he has told me the answer is No. Now he knows where someone is with whom to share his grief and he cannot reach that person. And I realise Peeta has been in the same position as Farrell, not really knowing what happened to his wife.

"My wife was Rebecca Magee before she married me. Her parents were Cronan and Elan Magee. She had a brother, Joseph. I could not bring myself to face them after she disappeared. I know Cronan and Joseph searched for her without success. Cronan started a campaign against the Union and disappeared as well. After he disappeared I visited Elan but I was too late. There was no comforting her, or Joseph. Perhaps now I can help them, tell them where Cronan is."

"Enough of me for now, tell me the rest," he says, putting on a brave face. My story may distract him so I continue.

I relate our time in the prison, the visits of Coin, the hospital, Connor's torture and injuries. Farrell stops me when I try to skim over the escape, asking for more information. I tell him we can do a review with the other two later, to ensure the details are accurate. Then I describe our journey to Cork, and the disappointment of finding the plane destroyed.

"Why weren't you there?" I ask.

"We went there after Thomas left our group. We waited for seven days and then an Union patrol came through. We escaped but they found our campsite. It was too dangerous to stay. Back at my farm near New Dublin we found everything destroyed. Leaving was our only recourse, go somewhere out of reach of the Union. So we came here to Carran. We didn't tell anyone, it would put them at risk if they knew, as well as risking the community."

"I am glad you did, it is amazing to find a place like this," I say.

My story continues as I describe our raids, our lives at Laragh and bidding farewell to the Italians. Farrell had heard about the raids but initially they did not know who was responsible. When they found out, after the Bally Bridge ambush, they started searching, immediately sending Aiden to Cork and Ailin to New Dublin. It was pure chance we found Aiden when we did, and very lucky for him.

"So here we are, in this serendipitous sanctuary," I conclude.

"And very welcome you are. I wish you weren't here though. I am sorry. I wish you were home, safe with your family."

"Well, there is no way that is going to happen. We lost our two hovercraft, your helicopter, the plane and now the hovercraft and helicopter at Millstreet. Connor doubts the helicopters would make it across the ocean and Coin won't land a hovercraft again. Maybe it is fate that I am here, that I must help Ireland win freedom from your oppressors."

"Still, I feel responsible, and I mean to convince the elders that they should support a mission to return you."

"The request is futile, Farrell. I should learn Irish because it is the language of my future," I say, my tone melancholy. I know this is true. There is no way to reach Panem and reunite with my family. I could hand myself over to the Union and hope they offload this troublesome woman to Coin and his cohorts. Even if that were to eventuate I sincerely doubt he would free me. His desire for revenge would preclude my release. Besides, he knows I could rouse the Districts.

"Ireland would be blessed to call you Citizen," says Farrell, attempting to assuage my melancholy, but he is unable to break my mood. After a while he adds, "You seem to have a strong relationship with Connor and Ronan." He is correct; the two are close to being family to me. "Connor stayed by your side as you came through town. Do I detect something more between you?"

I look deep into the eyes of Farrell, trying to assess what he is thinking. Does he want me to have a relationship with Connor? If I join with Connor it would provide incentive to stay in Ireland and fight the Union. Or does he perhaps disapprove, knowing I am married to Peeta, a man he has never met, a man on a continent separated from us by a vast ocean. His visage is impassive, his face etched with many lines that are unreadable.

I struggle to answer his question. How can I describe my feelings for Connor when I do not know myself? I am a married woman. Peeta and I have spent nearly three decades together, first in the arena in a life and death struggle with other Tributes from the Districts, and then as a couple, recovering from the trauma and torture of two Games and a rebellion and finally raising our children, Jewel and Stone. Should I hold on to the memory, knowing I can never go home? Or do I move on and accept the advances of Connor. He is an intriguing person, with many talents and attributes that would appeal to any woman. His obvious affection for me should not cloud my own thoughts and feelings for him. Sometimes the most attractive thing about someone is their attraction to you. Indecision overwhelms me and I cannot answer the question.

"I'm sorry," whispers Farrell.

"Can you stop apologising?" I snap back, uncomfortable with his guilt, wishing he would move on and accept the situation as I have.

"Apologising for what?" It is Connor, standing in the doorway. His sudden words give me such a fright I am off my chair and reaching for an arrow in a quiver that is not on my back.

"Can you not do that?" His puzzled face tells me he doesn't understand. "Don't sneak up on us like that. How long have you been there?" Did he hear Farrell's question? If he did he would witnessed me unresponsive.

"Just arrived. What's up?"

"We were talking about Carran…" Farrell responds, saving me from further embarrassment.

"Good, because Carran are throwing us a party," says Connor jovially.

I shudder. The last party I went to is part of the reason I am here.


	19. Chapter 19

The Festival

The town hall sits right next to the main road but I missed it when we entered town due to the distraction of the market and school. It is large enough to house the entire community. The front of the building is close to twenty metres wide, with the main door facing the road, whilst the length of the building runs away at least thirty metres, perpendicular to the road. The walls are made of grey stone, expertly fitted together with cement between the stones for stability. Round windows line the length of the building. The roof is a magnificent rounded cap of thatch. Reeds, grass and wheat straw intertwine and as I walk toward it the roof seems to wave like it is blowing in the wind. The round shape of the roof is reminiscent of an overturned boat and the entire image reminds me of a ship I saw in dock when we escorted Isabella and Matteo to Wexford Island.

Darkness is descending rapidly when the soaring double doors finally swing open and people who are patiently queueing to join the festivities are allowed in. I wonder when someone will light candles or torches when lights along the walls and high above the centre of the hall start flickering. People start to cheer which confuses me. Surely the electric lights are a normal feature of this ever-surprising village. Then I realise it is not the lights but what they reveal that attracts the cheers. Within seconds the dim orange embers flare into yellow electric lights and the scene takes on a warm soft hue, adding to the other features and decorations. Supporting the brown and white ceiling is a magnificent lattice of beams, crisscrossing the room from the base of the ceiling on each side to halfway up the span on the other side. From the beams hang ribbons of many colours, dangling to within a metre of the revellers. I smile amidst the laughter of the children and the occasional scream as fathers raise their children to touch the ribbons and young men lift their female companions in playful imitation.

People flow in all around us, pushing us further and further into the hall. Many of the women set platters of food on tables that line the right side of the hall. Close to the door a group of men are serving mead and red ale from behind a crowded counter. They also have bottles of whiskey, which they pour into glasses in small quantities. As we pass the counter I smell the whiskey and it is far superior to the rotgut Haymitch used to buy from the Hob, lacking that caustic smell which burns the sinuses.

Unlike the Capitol soiree I feel right at home at this celebration. My apprehension evaporates as I see the number of children dancing with their parents or chasing each other through the crowd. There is no competition amongst the adults to see who has the most outlandish costume, or who can eat the most. Neither are there waiters or attendants serving the elite. No, this is a village, an extended family, celebrating their oneness, celebrating life. And it is good. The lights, the rich aroma of the food, the happy melody of the people all contribute to what Connor besides me likens to a gathering of the Faerie.

Then I hear a note from a fiddle. At the far end of the hall is a stage. A band of four men sit in a small knot on the stage and the fiddler is playing what evolves into the first bars of a lively song. A man with a concertina joins in, followed by a drummer, who is playing with a short tipper on a round frame drum attached to him by a thong around his neck. I notice the fourth man is tapping on his lap and not playing the instrument on his lap, an instrument I have not seen before.

I can sing well, I have been able to since I was young. It is a gift passed to me from my father. People would stop to listen to him sing and often asked him to sing at events in 12. Living with him gave me a love for music. As I listen to the music now I compare it with that of my own home. The instruments are similar, as is the style of music, but this music seems older, yet freer. It sounds like a group of wild children running, jumping and laughing as they play without constraint. At times the music even seems unrehearsed and impromptu. And it is infectious, leaping into my body and consuming me. I find myself bobbing my head and tapping my feet in time with the music.

Ronan has separated from Connor and me and is standing near the counter with a mug of mead in his hand. With him are the sisters and the young men and women of the village are introducing themselves to the three of them. The men especially are queueing to meet the three and I am not surprised. Ronan has shaved what little hair he had on his chin and stands like the warrior he has become, in clean clothes that emphasise his lean and muscular physique. The two girls are extremely pretty, and obviously single. They both stay near Ronan although I note he seems to favour Niamh, the younger of the two sisters, talking in her ear regularly.

The villagers start approaching Connor and me and Farrell tries his best to introduce everyone. Without fail the people welcome us to the village and offer any assistance we require. Not a single person asks us for anything, not a story, not a word, not a favour. The generosity is overwhelming, as is the music, which continually draws my attention to the stage where the men animatedly play.

After each piece of music we all cheer the band. Then the music stops and onto the stage bounds a lithe woman in a royal blue dress. The dress is the shortest I have seen here in Ireland, not reaching down to her knees, although she wears black leggings underneath. The bodice of the dress is tight-fitting with sleeves down to her wrists. She has a mass of light auburn hair that bounces in tight curls around her shoulders. She is feisty, I can tell by how she leaped onto the stage. People are calling out her name "Eimear … Eimear", clapping all the while. Someone lets out a two-tone whistle. In her hand is a fiddle.

The three men set down their instruments and pick up glasses with various liquids in them as Eimear takes centre stage, nestling her fiddle into her neck. Her tune begins, quieting the crowd. Eimear starts a constant motion as she builds the melody. Her body movement is like a caress, slow and gentle, always in time with the music. Somehow her hair never gets in the way. She is so deeply involved in the music that, from my vantage point halfway down the hall, I never see her face. Her passion flows with the music, she becomes the visual embodiment of the sound, slowing with the softer sections and then bursting into almost violent fits as the song reaches its crescendo.

By now the entire village is in the hall but except for the occasional cough or sneeze all you can hear is her instrument. Unlike the fiddler in the band her music has a low tempo, long notes drawing attention as if she is telling a story. The melody is sad, a lamentation of better times and of loss, but as it progresses there is strength and ultimately hope. My skin around my shoulders and neck tingles and tears threaten to burst free of their confines but I choke them back, determined not to show weakness in front of these strangers who have welcomed me to their home. Then I feel foolish as I look around and see others in the crowd, men and women both, wiping tears from their cheeks, holding their loved ones' hands or swaying together, arms looped around each other.

The crowd knows the tune because the start to cheer madly before it finishes. The last long note sounds and then Eimear is curtsying to the audience. She flicks her head back, causing the hair that almost has a life of its own to bounce clear of her face, which is intense and passionate. I can see strength and determination in this woman to match my own and I wonder if we would be friends or rivals. My hope is the former.

The audience begins to quiet down, expectation of the next piece of music building. The final band member comes to life. He is sitting with bellows attached to the inside of his right arm and a bag clutched under his left arm. A clutter of pipes protrudes out from the bag. He draws his elbow out and starts to push in again and the pipes sound. There is an immediate sweet constant sound of notes. If I were not musical I would possibly mistake it for a noise but as it is I know the carefully crafted notes combine harmoniously. Then he starts to play a melody on one of the pipes that reminds me of a flute but with a different tone. There are cheers from the audience as the first notes sound. Connor leans in and says "Caoineadh Cu Chulainn … the lament of Cu Chulainn," which must be the name of the song. The music is enthralling, like nothing I have ever heard, and I am immediately in love with the sound, wishing I could learn to play the instrument.

The end of the song brings a cheer but this time it is a respectful one, a cheer that carries a deep appreciation not just of the music but the message that the song delivers. I may not know the meaning but I can sense it within the people surrounding me. There is a unity amongst them that I have never felt before, even in my District or during the rebellion. Not even during my second Hunger Games, when all the Tributes united against the concept, did I feel oneness like this.

Then the two fiddlers, Eimear and the man, break the mood by striking up a lively tune. The crowd parts as six young women in beautiful, intricately embroidered dresses push through to the stage where the men hoisted them up. They stand in a line and start to dance together, in perfect synchronised steps. They keep their arms taught by their sides as their feet perform quick snapping steps and flicks, all with perfect synchronisation. After a while they take turns dancing solo in front of the line, each to appreciative applause.

The entertainment doesn't stop after the dances. A space in the middle of the hall clears and eight couples line up in two rows. The couples start a similar style of dance to the girls earlier, this time with the full band playing a festive tune in accompaniment. To my surprise I see Shar and Ailin dancing in the far line. She is amazing, not missing a step, radiant in her happiness. If I did not know her I would think she was a local. Her ornate dress, her beautiful red hair, her expert dancing, all tell me she fits in here perfectly.

I was so worried about telling her there was no way to reach home. The thought that she would want to go back to Panem, to her former life, just as I do, has dogged me this past year. But I realise she is different to me as I watch her dance with Ailin amongst these people that appear to be a real family to her. Her story about living alone with her father is a strange community contrasts radically to this pleasing scene. Now that I see how happy she is here, knowing that she probably won't want to go home, the stress washes away from me.

Watching Shar calms not just my nerves but also the battle between making it home and staying here. I have been toiling for so long to find a way home that I forgotten about living my life properly. In fact, I probably forgot to live my life the past twenty-five years. Even the children were Peeta's idea. Why do I need to go home? Peeta is such a good father; the children will be fine without me. I always did struggle to be a parent. The legacy of the past never truly leaves you. The pain of watching children suffer in 12, with the added torment when two were taken away to die each year, has never really left me.

Peeta probably has a new partner as well. It has been nearly a year since they told him that I died and with all the women in the Capitol I doubt he would be short of opportunities. Having a woman around would also help with the children and the house, although I doubt they would stay in 12. More likely they are living in the Capitol with servants to clean the apartment, do schoolwork with the children and help them live a life of dinners, decadent parties and ludicrously over-the-top social events.

I glance up at Connor next to me to see a huge smile dominating his face. He is politely greeting everyone but I can tell he wants the attention off him; he just wants to enjoy the night. Since I first met Connor I do not think I have seen him quite like this. The thought plagues me for a while until I realise he is genuinely relaxed and happy. It is this place, these people. This is what he has been fighting for most of his life. Irish people free to choose their own way of life without the Union to dictate what can and cannot be. He looks at me when there is a gap in the queue and smiles, a genuine smile that spreads, squinting his eyes at the corners. Then he leans down in the middle of the boisterous throng to kiss me. A quick kiss, full of passion and joy, and mischief. The action seems appropriate, matching the music and the throng, so that I cannot help but kiss him back, stretching his quick kiss into something much longer.


	20. Chapter 20

Day 365 - Shar

The next day dawns overcast and wet, with an icy north-east wind blowing up against the shutters of my room. My bare foot pokes out from under the down duvet and squeals in protest as the foot hides under cover again. The air is cold and I have no desire to be brave and climb out into it. After a while, though, I start to fidget. Lying in bed has never been a skill of mine. Years of hunting and rising to dress and feed children have drilled habits into me. During my time on the Rock I would begin the day running around the compound whilst everyone else remained in their cells. I steel myself and slip out from the warmth of the bed. My clothes are still absent so I quickly dress in near-darkness in the same donated clothes I wore yesterday and head downstairs.

The house is quiet, and my footsteps across the creaking wooden floorboards threaten to wake whoever is still asleep. I raise the heels of my boots and manage to reduce the creaks to sullen moans. The kitchen in the back of the house is cold, much colder than I expect. Back in Victor's Village our kitchen was the warmest room in the house due to the cooking and the fireplace. I guess there was no cooking here yesterday due to the festival so there was no residual heat.

There is a larder in the corner and I check for any snacks that I can eat. Last night I didn't eat anything, despite the veritable feast provided by the villagers. Although the event lasted four hours it rushed by, only finishing when the water stopped flowing to the reservoir and the electrical lights started to dim. The number of people that stopped to talk to us, the music and dancing, and the mugs of mead I drank all contributed to me forgetting to eat. Come to think of it, I cannot remember Connor eating anything either.

Connor! I do remember kissing him and I know this time it wasn't him kissing me but rather us kissing each other. The moment flashes repeatedly, refusing to let me forget it. The conflict within me sways me from pleasure to disdain for myself. I am a married woman, after all. When we arrived back at the house I deliberately hurried to my room and closed the door behind me. If Connor came to my door I do not know if I would have resisted. Luckily he did not knock and I was able to sleep alone, although dropping to sleep took more than an hour as I thought about knocking on his door.

Some bread, hard cheese and cold milk from a cold box at the base of the larder combine to provide a filling meal for my gurgling stomach. I am used to road fare so the fresh food makes for a welcome change. The bread does remind me of home, of Peeta's baking, but the longing and the idea that I will ever eat one of his loaves again is gone. This is my future now and based on last night I think it will be better than I could have imagined a few months ago.

The house is still quiet when I walk through to the front room where chairs stand in an arc around the empty fireplace. Dawn is lightening the sky and I cannot sit in the room quietly alone so I head to the front door. A walk through town may help clear my thoughts. A voice whispers to me from the top of the stairs as I pull on my coat. "Where are you going?" Shar peers down the stairs still dressed in a colourless nightgown that helps emphasize her fiery hair, which is longer than I remember.

"I need to walk," I whisper back.

"Wait a minute, I'll come with you. If that's OK?"

"Yes, it is. I would love that," I respond, realising I can finally have some time with her. I need to clear the air, explain our situation. I hope that I am right that, from the evidence last night, she is happy here. She is also the only other person from Panem here so it is important to keep her close to me. She will be able to help me adjust to life here. Spending half a year in prison and another half fighting and hiding from the Union, my life has not been exactly normal.

She disappears and I step outside to wait for her. Waiting inside would be warmer but I do not want to see any of the men in the house right now, especially Connor. Not that he did anything wrong, I just need some time, time to find my new self, time to understand my path, time to choose my relationships. At least with Shar I know where I stand. At least I think I do.

"Where do you want to go?" asks Shar, interrupting my musings.

"I was thinking of walking through the village but if you have a suggestion I'll take it," I offer.

"We both have boots, so let's walk a trail round the village. Hopefully the clouds will lift soon so you can see the landscape."

We head up the road and soon turn off to the right, heading a kilometre along an unpaved lane and then upslope along a footpath into the mountains. The exercise warms me and soon the only parts of me that are cold are my ears and nose, exposed to the wind. Fortunately the rain stopped before I woke; otherwise I may not have taken the opportunity to walk. Shar and I continue up the trail in silence but it is a comfortable silence. It reminds me of hunting with Gale, both of us focussed on our task and understanding the other's needs. Small talk has never been my forte anyway.

Shar leads me along a meandering path that reveals an enchanting landscape. At first the terrain is farmland but when we leave the lane the land changes to areas of grey rock interspersed with patches of life. The flora and the ground are damp but the fragrances that ride the wind are enticing, hinting at magic and adventure just beyond the next rise. The mountains are stark compared with the Wicklow Mountains or my own home, where forests dominate the hillsides and the valleys harbour streams and abundant wildlife. It may look barren but the barrenness is the characteristic that gives the Burren its beauty. I follow Shar for an hour along the rising trail until she calls for a rest near an ancient slab of carved rock balanced atop two others.

It has been a challenging hike and I chastise myself for not bringing water. Perhaps it would have been better to explore the village as I first planned. Then I see that Shar is in worse condition than me. My months on the road have hardened my muscles but Shar has been living in a village this whole time. Sure, she has been cleaning, farming and completing other chores, but hiking is about endurance, not strength. Next time I will make sure we have water to drink, and food too, because there will definitely be a next time. The view, despite the clouds, is spectacular. The remoteness of mountain tops always helps me clear my mind and I need clarity to decide my future path.

"Thank you," I say, "this is just what I needed."

"We were so worried about you," says Shar.

I laugh. "I was worried about you, alone in this foreign land, surrounded by wild Irishmen."

"They aren't all wild…"

"Yes, I noticed a young man who seems besotted with a red-headed beauty..."

For a change it isn't me doing the blushing. Shar's reaction to my banter is priceless, a giggle and a blush that affirms my assertion. I step over to her and pull her into a hug that she returns enthusiastically. The frustration of the last year, of worrying about her, of wondering how I would get us home, all compresses into that hug and I realise I am trembling as the tension releases.

"I am happy for you," I say, "For you and Ailin."

"He is wonderful; he has been so good to me. When I was alone, after we lost you, he helped me stay sane. By the way, I did see you and Connor…"

So I didn't avoid blushing, but it is alright, it is just the two of us. I instinctively know that neither of us will recount this conversation. Still, I do not want to go into detail about my relationship with Connor. It is too confusing, even for me. So I swing the conversation back to her as we sit on small boulders.

"You are happy here?"

"Oh yes. This place, the people, the life, it is perfect. It may not have everything we had in the Capitol, but I am free, I am myself. There are no Senators groping me in the galley, no weirdly-dressed androgynous people enticing you do things that are just wrong. I am not forced to work menial tasks as a servant to wealthy people who care little about how I feel, or what I think. I work hard but it is for me and the village. Everyone does. The people here, they are … they are my family. They genuinely care for me, and I care for them. Here I am a person, not a possession. I will never go back to the Capitol."

Her passionate response is full of love for the present and defiance for the people of her past. It is a relief for me to hear her and see her so happy and confident. All my fears for her over the last year wash away. My determination to take Shar to Panem was needless. I could feel angry about the wasted effort but that would be selfish. Shar is genuinely content. There is a confidence in her that only comes from knowledge that she is safe and accepted.

"That is good. For a long time my promise to get you home… to Panem, that is, was my motivation to keep going, to find you, to find a way back. But when all possible avenues disappeared I was concerned about that promise…"

"You don't have to worry about me anymore..." she says with a smile.

"I see that now. My worry wasn't just for you though; it was also that I would stop fighting to get home. I was obsessed with returning and with revenge for what they did to us, to the people who were still on the two hovercraft. I have managed the revenge part but not the return. I think that may have to do."

"And your family?" Shar asks, drawing her legs up to her chest and she balances on her boulder.

I explain Coin's visits in prison, that my family thinks I am dead. We both drop into silence after that, Shar not sure how to respond, whether to comfort me or not and me, quiet in my acceptance of my fate, as I convince myself again it is better for them to move on with their lives. I can make a life here, perhaps with Connor, and I can fight the Union to free these people.

I listen to the feint sounds of nature around us, the rustle of a rodent in the grass, a faraway cry of a hunting bird, the wind wafting against my ears. The fresh smell of the earlier rain has dampened the fragrances I can imagine would float on the wind from the flowers and plants around us.

"Farrell told me three days ago that it was a week until we first met him, so four days from now," says Shar, breaking the quiet between us. Four days short of a year? So much has happened; so much has changed in my life. Then I think of the days before we arrived, stepping backward to work out the days prior to our arrival. The day we met Farrell and the hovercraft were blown up, the journey across the ocean, the trip north from 13, the day in 13 and the trip with Tarn. Four days. The magnitude of the number astounds me. Today, a year ago, I left my family behind. Peeta, Jewel and Stone; my wonderful husband, my beautiful daughter and my loving, energetic son. And I think of my mother, and Haymitch. They are part of my family too. I nod toward Shar, acknowledging her but not sharing my own thoughts. No more words pass between us, perhaps to Shar's disappointment. I don't know what I would say, there is too much, it would come out garbled and perhaps incoherent. What I do know is that I must put the past behind me.

"It's going to start raining, we'd better go," says Shar. The sky above is growing darker as the clouds compress and the wind picks up as we jump off the boulders and begin our descent toward the village. We make it back to the lane, the wind pulling our skirts and hair in all directions, before the rain starts. When it does fall it is heavy and cold, drenching us long before we make it back to the house. We burst through the door, surprising Ronan, Connor, Ailin and Farrell sitting in the front room.

"Where have you been? We were worried," says Connor, standing. I walk to him, dripping on the floor, leaving a trail of water in my wake.

"Don't worry, we were just walking," I say. Then I hug him tight, pressing my soaked clothes against him, totally wetting the front of his own outfit. His shouts of No only serve to make the others laugh. Then he hugs me back and my head drops against his chest. Next to us Ailin pulls Shar to him and she exchanges a delighted glance with me, and I think to myself that this feels right. This is how I can put the past behind me.


	21. Chapter 21

Day 369 - The market

Four days later I am in the market looking for produce, slowly walking between the stalls, investigating the quality of the different offerings. The market runs two times a week and people from the farms and villages nearby all come to Carran to trade. There is no money so people trade services and goods. Ailin has given me a note for carpentry services that I can trade. Everyone knows him and accepts the note, placing a name and a value on the note for later use. I trade from a list Shar gave me for items such as braisech, lus, cainnenn, creamh, meacon and fothlacht. Some I know, like carrot, garlic and leek. Others I have not heard of, despite my knowledge of plants from our family book, such as brooklime, a small plant Shar says she will use lightly as an herb. Every trader that I approach seems to give me a fair price, each thanking me for being here and for my efforts against the Union. News spreads quickly in small communities.

The market is a lively plaza, filled with bright colours, amazing fragrances and sounds of people enjoying the congregation of friends and family. The stalls, which form an outer ring, invariably consist of a table spread with colourful cloth underneath a tarpaulin of thick cloth that protects the produce and goods from rain, which falls regularly in Ireland. Inside the circle of traders is a circle of heavy wooden tables with benches where the townsfolk and farmers sit to eat and drink the fare of the food stalls that form the nucleus of the plaza. Each food stall serves a different type of food or beverage.

Luckily my lack of Irish does not limit me in the market. Shar speaks Irish to most everyone, with a few English words when she doesn't know the Irish equivalent. Since I have been in Ireland I have only learnt a few words, the basic greetings, please and thank you, that's about it. Being with Connor, Ronan and the Italians meant we used English, the one common language we had. Now though, I am going to make an effort, just as Shar has. My future is here, I need to assimilate with the locals, understand them better, and understand their culture. Language is important to achieving that goal.

I have a basket full of produce before I allow myself to eat. All the others in the house have gone off to complete some chores or tasks so this will be my lunch. After placing my basket on an empty table I walk around the food stalls, savouring the aromas of rabbit stew, roast chicken and grilled potatoes. Then the smell of fresh bread captures my attention. The stall owner has wrapped the different breads in thick cloth, retaining the newly-baked warmth and freshness. The fragrance reminds at once of home, of Peeta rising early to bake before the rest of us wake. It is without hesitation that I buy a small round bun. To that I add some roast chicken and grilled potato, as well as a mug of cider.

As I sit at my table a chopping sound cuts into the peaceful hum of the market. Helicopters! They buzz over the market seconds after I first heard their rotors. I should have heard them earlier but they must have flown in low up the valley. Perhaps my senses have dulled a bit due to the peace of this place. Four helicopters loop in tight formation around the town and then split up, spreading to the four cardinal points around the market. Each helicopter descends and soldiers drop cables that they then slide down, one at each of the west and east exits, blocking escape and the other two drop their soldiers directly into the market. The helicopters elevate and loop away to provide an aerial guard once all the soldiers have detached from the cables.

People in the market react calmly. No-one runs or heads toward the exits, rather they continue about their business. That is, at least, what it looks like at first glance. When I watch them I see that they are carefully hiding notes, covering some goods like the cider I just ordered. Perhaps the items that normally draw taxation are the ones being hidden. A woman steps up to me, mutters a few words about keeping my head down and ties a bonnet on my head. As quickly as she arrived so she disappears, joining a group of women standing and watching the helicopters. Another young woman, in her early twenties and holding a baby girl, drops a small basket on the table next to mine and sits down. She hands me the child and takes a bottle out the basket. She gives me that too, showing me how to feed the little one.

"Act natural, leave the talk to me if they come by. Just keep feeding Myrna, act like she is your grand-daughter," she instructs, her voice quiet but confident. I nod and follow her directions, happy to have an ally. Has this type of raid happened before? I want to ask her but know it is not an appropriate question for now. Later, if all turns out well for us, I will thank her and ask her. It must have though; the entire village reacted as a unit, as if they had a plan for just such an occasion.

A sudden gasp from my companion alerts me of something unexpected. I follow her upturned gaze to see, hanging in the sky, a hovercraft. A white Panem logo shines from the flank of the machine, taunting me. The young woman has never seen one before, I realise. So Coin has provided unprecedented reinforcements to the Union. He must be looking for me, I cannot think of another reason the craft would be here now. Why would he bolster forces for the Union on such a poor and backward country? Yes, the psychotic self-proclaimed President is definitely looking for me.

The soldiers who dropped from the helicopters are moving through the market checking the people, totally ignoring the stalls. These soldiers look different to the others we have encountered during my time here in Ireland. Dressed totally in black, with a red circle of stars on each upper arm, they appear to be elite troops. Their helmets are black as well, and include earpieces and wire microphones that curve along the sides of their chins. They operate in trios, one soldier pointing a compact machine gun toward the other two who are moving from person to person. They speak to each other in a harsh language with staccato words barked out.

The Irish people continue about their business, mulling around the invaders. I see that some of them are being checked twice or more and are starting to confuse the soldiers. One soldier pushes a man to the ground, shouting at him to keep in his place, but the rest of the villagers ignore the instructions, constantly moving around the plaza. The movement seems to direct the soldiers around the stalls and it takes a few minutes before one group of soldiers pushes past some men gathered in a tight circle and head toward the tables where many women have gathered.

"Don't panic," says the young woman, a hint of concern in her voice. Should I tell her I have fought in a war, that I am capable of looking after myself and making astute decisions in time of conflict? No, she means well, and I am grateful for her attempt at protecting me. Three soldiers stop at my table, staring hard at us. I flash a smile and turn back to the baby, rocking it slightly and humming a nonsense tune as it continues to suck on the milk bottle.

At this tense moment my thoughts dash away, back to a time over a decade ago. My mother did come to help me when Jewel was born and although I remained mostly distant, I did appreciate her being there. She taught me about child-care and she was good at it. Her knowledge of ailments and their cures, of how to care for a child as well, was extensive. I remember watching her rocking Jewel just as I was doing now, and I imagine her sitting her in front of the threatening men. Do I now look like my mother when she helped me?

"She will need burping soon, my dear," I say to the woman next to me, "Should I do it again?"

"Yes… thanks mum, that would be grand," she replies instantly, picking up the allusion and following it.

The soldiers watch us a few seconds more and then one waves the other two on to the next table. I realise I have hardly been breathing, except for when I spoke to my companion. We spend the next ten minutes quietly caring for the baby as the soldiers check everyone they think they have missed. Thankfully none of the teams approaches us again and when they all finally withdraw toward the east entrance near the main road I breathe deeply, letting out a large sigh of relief.

I glance up at the hovercraft that still hovers like a bird of prey waiting to strike. It is almost certain they have been using cameras to search the crowd, recording the scene and using facial-recognition software to identify known individuals. My gratitude for the bonnet is immense and I make a mental note to find out the name of the woman who probably saved me from Coin. We continue our charade until the helicopters and hovercraft move off to the north-east.

"Thank you, you saved me," I say with gratitude to the young woman next to me. It is only now that I look closely at her and realise she looks exactly like me. Dark hair, light blue eyes, a smattering of freckles; no wonder the Union troopers believed our ruse.

"You are one of us now, we look after our own. I'm Brianna. This is Myrna," she replies.

Connor bursts in our conversation, flustered from running. He was away at the reservoir with the maintenance team; he must have sprinted all the way.

"Are you OK?" he gasps, his body bent over, his hands on his knees.

"Obviously better than you are," I reply with a grin.

"Should I call the doctor?" asks Brianna, and the two of us burst out laughing, releasing our tension but not Connor's.

"Next time I won't bother," snorts Connor and walks off to the cider stall, our laughter following close behind him.


	22. Chapter 22

Day 376 – Christmas

Today the village gathers in the town hall for a Mass. A priest and his assistants conduct a religious festival celebrating the birth of their God. Well, the Son of their God, his name is Jesus. He was born to virgin woman a couple thousand years ago to save the people of Earth. Personally I find it hard to understand what people get from religion because there were no churches in District 12. Here, however, the people place their faith in God and Jesus to help them through life. They seem to draw their strength from their beliefs and they develop tranquillity, especially when they go to church.

Everyone dresses in their best clothes and congregate in two locations - the adults in the hall and the children in the school hall. Some of the mothers accompany the children to give religious lessons. Every person, without exception, attends the gathering. My housemates insisted I go with and Shar provided a new outfit for me. Some of the women in the village have already brought me beautiful new clothes that fit amazingly well. How they had my measurements I do not know. The outfit Shar gives me, however, is me in every way. Tight black leggings and a cream top accompanied by tan suede boots and a long brown leather jacket give a warrior's look but retain my femininity.

Although I have engaged with many of the villagers they continue to treat me with something approaching reverence. The usher offers me a place at the front of the hall, alongside Connor, Ronan and Farrell. Despite peering around I cannot see Shar, Ailin or Aiden. I do see Brianna and give a small wave which she returns with a grin as she holds little Myrna. My first friend, I think to myself.

The ceremony is simple and beautiful. The people sing hymns, surprisingly in English, to their God, and the priest talks for some time about the closeness of God, how we must all place our faith in God. He speaks of how God will answer one's prayers when you have gratitude for the goodness of the world and its inhabitants, both human and other. I start to wonder whether, if I was close to God, that I would be in this place. Perhaps I would still be here. I lost my gratitude for my life, for the people around me. I resented so much of my life, the chores, the loneliness when Peeta was away, and the responsibility that comes with children. Yes, I would probably still be here. Would being close to God give me a way home? Somehow I do not think so, with that devil Coin and his District 13 devotees blocking my path home.

I encounter Shar and Ailin on the way back to the house. She is so happy here, I cannot help but think that maybe God helped her, answered her prayers. I remember she mentioned the village where she lived with her father celebrated God. Perhaps it rubbed off on her, causing Him to help her when she was at her lowest. Then again, why would God allow all those people on our two hovercraft to die? If they were non-believers were they expendable. In which case, why am I here?

These thoughts plague me all the way back to our house and my silence affects the entire group. Connor walks next to me and after a while slows down, giving me space. The usual chatter from Shar, Ailin and Ronan is muted. We are about to have a lunch together, mostly cooked by Shar and Ailin, and I do not want to spoil the festive mood, so I push my thoughts away and force a smile, trying to break my pensive mood.

"I'll race you there," I dare Shar, and the two of us break into a run for the last hundred metres, Shar pipping me to the door with a cheer, her arms waving in the air. I can hear the men a ways down the road laughing at us. The sprint does me good and I tail Shar to the kitchen where we complete the final parts of the feast. Shar sings some of the hymns from the church as we work. I pick up the words slowly and join her, a few words and humming to begin but then the whole chorus of a hymn. I stop when I realise that Shar isn't singing anymore and there are two faces, those of Connor and Ronan, peering in through the door.

"Don't stop," says Shar, followed by Ronan asking, "Where did you learn to sing like that?" Connor can only stare, mesmerised. Why am I always getting embarrassed like this?  
"Come on, I think all the food is ready," I say, changing the subject.


	23. Chapter 23

Day 383 – New Year

Unlike Christmas, New Year is an event we celebrated in 12. Except for the year Peeta and I won the Hunger Games, New Year was the only genuine celebration we had as a District. That year everyone received extra rations and the Capitol threw a party to welcome us home. On every New Year's Eve though, the Capitol would provide food, beverages and entertainment. Back when I was a child my parents would take us to the square when it wasn't snowing. We would eat the fancy tarts, sweets, and drink the bubbly drinks supplied, all whilst we were subjected to the weird music the Capitol's musicians usually played. Mostly the music got weirder each year although the year before my father died four singers took the stage and kept us enthralled for hours with their beautiful performance. That year my father didn't have to get on stage and rescue the crowd. After my father died we didn't go to the square for New Year again. I was too young to take Prim alone and my mother wouldn't go anywhere but rather cried all night as the sounds of the party drifted across the Seam, like a dog joining in the barking and howling without knowing why.

After the rebellion Peeta and I avoided the party, to the disappointment of many of our fellow 12-ers. It just wasn't in us to celebrate hollow occasions. That changed when the children came. When Jewel first started school the children were asked to sing for the District so we had to tag along. I was still nursing Stone although I refused to do so in public like some of the other mothers, so Peeta went with Jewel and I stayed home, the feint sounds of the celebration wafting across the valley to Victor's Village. As Stone grew older I ran out of excuses to avoid the gathering and the children were so enthusiastic I eventually surrendered and joined the throng. Granny Sae would even coerce me into singing a song or two.

Here in Carran the majority of the villagers, and many outlying farmers, have gathered to usher in the New Year. Unlike our District the people all contribute provender, as they did for the festival when we arrived. I have been here three weeks and already there have been three celebrations. I am sure it will not carry on like this, but it has been great fun. The first party was about welcoming strangers to the village, albeit strangers who held hero status. The second celebration was about family, and I think it was the most special for me, in part due to my separation but also in part due to the people around me, the people who mean the most to me now. Shar, Connor, Ronan, Aiden and Ailin: They are my family now. This third event is another welcome, this time a welcome to the New Year.

The band is on stage again playing lively fun music that people are dancing to. I expect we will see the talented dancers again, as well as Eimear cavorting with her fiddle. The Capitol's party was an attempt at keeping the populace controlled but this party is a communal gathering of hope and the difference is tangible to me. I doubt anyone except Shar and I would understand. Although the Union controls the country it does not usually interfere in the routine of life, unlike the Capitol that controlled what we produced, what we ate, what we owned. Here, despite the lack of technology, there is more freedom. Thomas's comments to Connor that everything was good before the ill-fated rebellion ring true. What was so bad about the Union? I compare the Capitol's methods again and find the Union is not as harsh. Perhaps negotiation would be better than fighting. Who would we negotiate with, though? I am sure the local police commander would not have any true power. Perhaps that is something we could do in the New Year: start new negotiations.

Connor and I dance together between the formal dances and the occasional musical interludes. Otherwise we spend our time talking with Shar and Ailin. Ailin is a serious man, short of words, but profound and insightful when he does speak. I learn more about him this night than at any time before. I also learn how devoted he is to Shar. After a while I manage to catch him alone when Connor is fetching cider and Shar is away with some other young woman.

"So, what is your intention with my Shar?" I ask, tongue-in-cheek.

"I intend to marry with her," is Ailin's prompt, serious response. "She is everything to me. She is my angel sent by God."

"She is an angel, you are right. Don't worry, I am not being serious, I was just joking. She is not my responsibility, she is old enough to make her own decisions," I say, trying to diffuse his intensity.

"Well, she feels she must support you. If you asked her to leave, to go back to Panem, she would go. I would come too."

"I wouldn't ask..."  
"She would go nonetheless."

"I wouldn't allow it. She is happy here, with you, because of you. I would not let her give that up for any wild undertaking. Don't worry Ailin, Shar will be with you for a long time. Keep on doing what you are doing, that is all you need to keep your angel leaving," I say, assuring him of their bond.

"I do intend to marry her. We have discussed it already. Don't tell her you know, but she will ask you to give her away."

I am surprised by his revelation, on a personal and social level. I never expected our children to ask us to accompany them when they met a person and married. Back in Panem the marriage ceremony long ago dropped the tradition of a father giving away his daughter. Perhaps it has to do with the Irish and their retention of their religion. The Irish have retained their culture and traditions despite the oppression of the Union. I realise how much we lost in Panem during the wars and annihilation of millions of people. We did not just lose people and land, we lost our soul.

Connor returns with cider and I drain the mug of its contents quickly. His expression tells me he is surprised so I giggle out an excuse, "Time to have some fun." I hug Ailin and then pull Connor toward an area where men and women twirl around each other in a joyful celebration of life. Later, when a village elder stops the music and, with an ancient windup-watch counts the seconds to the New Year, Connor wraps his arms around me. His eyes glisten with laughter, cider, and a roguish attitude.

"It is tradition to kiss the person closest to you when the bell chimes," he says.

"Then you had better keep me in your arms, or I might choose someone else," I tease.

He leans down to kiss me and I pull away. "The bell hasn't chimed yet, what happened to tradition?" I ask.

"How about we make our own?" he suggests, then pulls me toward him, and this time I do not resist.


	24. Chapter 24

Day 385 - The Caves

At breakfast the day after New Year's Day Ronan invites me to go for a walk. I am restless after the lethargic day we had yesterday, when many people were recovering from a late night and too much, beer, whiskey, mead and cider, so I accept with enthusiasm. Dressing for a walk on a surprisingly sunny but fresh day is not as simple as back in 12. Here the weather can change in an hour. I decide on good walking clothes with a jacket that is easy to carry.

Connor, Aiden and Farrell are talking quietly in Irish in the front room and Ailin and Shar are nowhere to be seen, not even at breakfast. No-one else volunteers to join us so Ronan is my only companion as we head south through the town. Within a few minutes, though, a group of three meet us on the road at a junction where a small track leads east. Ronan introduces them as his friends. In three weeks he has integrated well into Carran and the youth seem to have appointed him as a leader. Two young men introduce themselves as Sean and Liam, followed by Clare, the young women.

"Let's walk together," suggests Clare, and they join us on the road south. Half a kilometre later we see another two people sitting on a wall by the road, a man and a woman who I immediately recognise - Brianna, the women with the baby at the market.

Ronan introduces them as Ryan and his wife. When I ask Brianna where Myrna, her baby, is, she replies, "Back at home with my ma," but the next part surprises me, "This isn't a trip for children."

I glance at Ronan, wondering how a walk changed into a trip, and realise Ronan was disingenuous when he invited me for a walk. I decide to go along with the group anyway. I wanted a walk and there must be a good reason they did not want to explain the motivation before we left the house. Ronan sees that I have figured something is afoot and shrugs his shoulders in a mock apology, so I smile with forgiveness. I am sure he wouldn't put me into a dangerous or awkward situation.

We turn off the main road onto a wide pathway and follow it east and then south again, through the green and brown countryside. Trees congregate in the valleys and dales, finding protection and companionship in the less-exposed nooks of the hills. The low winter sun still provides warmth but when we pass through shadowed areas the cold bites, confirming my decision to wear a jacket was the right one. Ryan, curly long hair bouncing around his round face, directs us off the road after two kilometres and trudge along an ancient waterway that is fully overgrown. A hundred metres off the road we meet Ailin and Shar waiting, smiles on their faces as they witness my shock. I embrace her briefly to show her I am not angry and she turns to carry on walking west along the riverbed.

Ryan launches up a slight incline to what I see is a small entrance to a cave.

"Are we headed there?" I ask Ronan.

"Yes, they have something to show us," he replies. I wait for him to elaborate but he remains silent so I hike onward, my anticipation building. Why are they being so secretive? Does Ronan know? His words echo "they have something to show us". So he doesn't know, or perhaps he knows but hasn't been here yet. Why also just me? If it were common knowledge then he would have told me at the house, in front of the others. What could be so secret that it shared with only a few from the village? There are eight people with me, is this known only to them? For a second my heart flutters as the thought of an aircraft hidden in the cave hits me but then I dismiss that idea. An aircraft couldn't fit in this cave. Money? Gold? No, what use would they be in a land where everything is bartered?

We reach the entrance to the cave, which a person wouldn't see unless one was directly in front of it as we are. There is damage though and the rock bears the scars of blasting. At some stage in the past someone has tried to enlarge the cave or there was a battle here. Moisture and moss coat the rocks that wear a cloak of vines, lending a damp smell to the scene. It is not a fresh fragrance like new rain but rather a cool, soothing one, emitting age and depth. It is mysterious, lending effect to the secrecy of the group. Ryan, who seems to be one of the leaders, pauses at the narrow entrance.

"Ms Everdeen…" he starts, but I correct him immediately, "Katniss, please call me Katniss."

"Katniss. Thanks for coming with us. I'm sorry for the way we brought you here, without saying why," he says. Ronan nods assent. I nod back and wait for Ryan to continue.

"The secrecy is needed though. We trust the Carran people but if the Union questions them something might slip out. Only a few of us know about this and we want to keep it that way," he says and pauses, waiting for me to respond, so I nod again.

"It's time for Ireland to be free again. We have lived our lives under the Union and no-one in this group knows what modern life is like, except you and Shar. I know we have electric lights here in Carran, running water with water heaters. That is amazing compared to other Irish towns, but it is nothing compared to what Shar has told us. Flying hovercraft, giant cities, vid, radio. The group of people here now were all born after the rebellion, when the Union destroyed electronics and electricity. Ireland was once a great nation. We had poets, inventors, men of industry. Now we are subsistence farmers, crafters, we are poorly educated and we have no national pride."

Ronan steps forward, "We want to fight, Katniss, like we did before, you, me and Connor. The people here are young. They do fear the Union, but they yearn for freedom more."

Ryan "We…, the younger adults in Carran…, we need your help. The elders are, well, scared, scared of the Union. We want to fight. We need your help. You have done this before, and you have been fighting. Ronan has told us."

Déjà vu. Someone wants to win a war and they need me to do it. Someone has an agenda and they need me to front it. First it was Snow trying to supress a rebellion, using me to quell the masses. Following that was Alma Coin and Plutarch Heavensby using me as a figurehead for the rebellion against the Capitol. Now this young group want me to lead them, or train them perhaps. Except for Ronan, who has fought with me over the last six months, they are naïve regarding the reality of war. Death, loss, hunger, trauma both physical and mental. The difference between Panem and this advance is me. In Panem I was fighting for my survival and that of my loved ones. Now. Well, I have lost my loved ones, through death and separation, and if I am honest with myself I have risked my life more than normal people would regard as sane. What motivation do I have to continue the fight I started half a year ago?

No, I am not the one to do this. "You should ask Farrell and Aiden, they have fought long for independence. They are intelligent, they will lead you well."

"They have aligned with our elders. They agree fighting would pose a threat to the village. They want to rebuild Ireland from Carran outward. Slowly, gradually," objects Ryan.

"Connor then, he is a fighter, experienced, he is a leader. He wants a free Ireland," I say, looking for options.

This time Ronan responds, "Did you hear them talking before we left? They were speaking in Irish. You need to learn. They were talking about negotiating with the local Union commander. Pardon our group and we will work with the Union. Connor was not happy but Farrell and Aiden were winning. It won't work, it has never worked. The Union don't say No, they say nothing. They ignore us, as if we were as low as the sheep in our pastures. We don't even know who leads the Union. Who do we negotiate with? The local commander is a drunk, dispatched to the outlying colonies. No, we need to fight."

He pauses, letting his words sink in. The people around us are all watching me, trying to assess my reaction to the words. Expectation! Expectation should be one of the sins. The expectation of others will always compromise a person, twisting decisions. It is emotional manipulation of the worst kind: the silent kind. I want to argue that I am not the right person but what I really think is that this fight is not the right one for me anymore. I have given up on returning home, on reuniting with my children and husband. Perhaps I am getting old like the elders who long for peace in their later years. Besides, wisdom says that we cannot win this fight.

"Ronan, we have fought well, but it wasn't a war. We raided police stations, stole from them. We were bandits. Only near the end did we really fight, in Millstreet. War is different. The enemy shoots back in a war. Some of you will die…"

"You can train us. If you train us we will be ready. We read about guerrilla warfare. We know the country, we can hit and run, hide, strike again."  
"I cannot train you…"

"You can." This time it is Shar. "You trained in District 13; you can teach us what you learned there."

"That was so long ago, I don't think I can remem… how do you know about that?"

"They taught us in the schools. They devoted a semester to the Hunger Games, the war, you and Peeta, your lives. There was a chapter on the two of you," she says, looking at me as if I should know that. But it is a shock. No-one ever told me, not even Peeta. Surely he must have known. The reaction of the people in the Capitol when I returned makes a little more sense now. I thought they were self-serving sycophants. Perhaps they were more sincere. Not many people get a slice of history devoted to them in books like that. A whole chapter?

Ailin stands next to Shar and takes her hand. "We need your help. Shar and I, we want a family, like you have. We want our children to grow up free, not living in poverty like this. Everything that Shar has told us about you tells us that you are the one who can make this happen." He kneels down in front of me, like a man proposing marriage to his beloved. "You have lost so much in your life. You lost your youth when your father died, you lost your innocence and sanity, you have lost your family now, being here. We understand that, we do. But the last one doesn't need to be permanent. If the Union is gone, if Ireland is free, then so will you be. You need us as much as we need you."

It is the first time Ailin has said more than ten words in my presence. He is generally the quiet person in a group, as quiet as the forest just before the dawn. Now his words, his passion, his empathy, strike home. I want to refuse but can find no valid response to him that isn't Yes. I still resist though. The thought of these young people dying hurts me but I see that doing nothing will hurt them more. Ronan's words echo "_They do fear the Union, but they yearn for freedom more_". They know the risks but they know the pain of poverty too, and they are willing to take the risk to rid themselves of their overlords.

I object feebly one last time, "It takes a lot to fight a war, we cannot steal enough…"

"That is why we are here; Ronan said you would think of everything. Come," says Ryan, pirouetting and stepping to the small cave. He ducks into the entrance and appears a few seconds later with torches. Black tar forms a lump at the end of each baton. Sean takes a flint from his pocket and together with Ryan go about starting a fire, which they use to ignite the torches.

Sean and Liam take up posts on either side of the cave and look outward, guarding against detection. The rest of us take a torch each and follow Ryan into the cave. The neck of the cave is a narrow tunnel that descends at a slight angle for fifteen metres and then flattens out. As the cave floor flattens out the roof lifts and the walls move out into a substantial space that we are easily able to stand in.

Along the cave are piles and boxes of equipment. The others stand aside as Ryan takes me from one stack to another, showing me the largest stockpile of weapons I have seen since District 13 during the rebellion. Although District 13's arsenal dwarfs this one, the quantity hidden here still astounds me. They must have been collecting for years.

"How…"

"We stole them from the Union, or collected them from Irish people scared of keeping them. If there were a raid the Union would arrest anyone hiding guns and charge them with agitation," Ryan says.

The others are walking amongst the weapons too, admiring the collection. They pick up small hand guns and bullets, heft rocket launchers and machine guns, avoid touching land mines. Ailin shows Shar how to handle a pistol, making sure the safety mechanism is on, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber before handing it to her. The sight of her handling the gun sends shivers through me, and I imagine Jewel with the same gun in her hand. The image reminds me of my desire to stop Jason Coin, as I did his mother and Snow. Ailin's words resound "_we want our children to grow up free_," and "y_ou need us as much as we need you_," and I know they are right. I am the person to lead them because this is a fight and fighting is what I do.


	25. Chapter 25

Day 458 – Horses and Ponies

I have never ridden a pony before, or even a horse. We didn't have many of either back in 12 and most of them ended up on plates. One of the ladies in the Hub, Libbie, specialised in preparing the meat, marinating it with just the right balance of herbs and spices. I know the Capitol folk frowned on eating horses but we had no use for them in 12. It wasn't like we had far to travel, so there was no need to ride them. And it took a lot to feed and keep them. Not that I ever ate any of the horse meat; we were too poor to afford it when Libbie did have some to sell. It mostly went to the merchants rather than the Seamers. Besides, like my father before me I could hunt squirrels to provide meat for the table. There was no need to buy someone else's fare.

After ten minutes of me trying to mount one of the more energetic horses, the farmer made me change to an older pony. First I went to the wrong side of the horse, which the farmer said made it nervous. There wasn't any difference to me, the saddle looked the same from both sides, but I walked around to the other side anyway. Around the front, of course, after everyone had shouted at me for walking near the rear of the horse. Then I placed the incorrect foot in the stirrup and had the whole crowd laughing for five minutes before the farmer showed me the proper way to mount. They were still laughing when the horse went to eat rather than walk in the direction I wanted. That is when the famer made me change. Now I am riding a black pony that is smaller than the horses my companions are on and, as the farmer said, far more docile. "She is smart, she can carry anyone. Just sit still and she will follow the horses," he said. The others had all ridden before and exuded calmness only experience brings. I on the other hand, was visibly nervous and unsure of the whole experience.

The problem with the pony is that she insists on walking behind the horses and I want to be at the front of the line with Connor. He is leading us north through the Sliabh Eachtaí mountains toward our target, the militia base at Loughrea. I am frustrated, I need to discuss tactics with him and show leadership. Leaders should do just that, lead. I feel like I am surplus to requirements now, and inferior to the people I have trained. No amount of coaxing, clicking, bouncing or kicking with my heels will convince the pony to move forward along the line.

I keep thinking there was no need for horses, we only need to travel twenty kilometres, but then I remind myself that Connor is right. It is not that we cannot walk the distance; it is that we need to return rapidly after the raid. Trudging across the mountains would be difficult loaded with weapons, ammunition, thick clothing, food and water. We have come prepared for a battle, not just a raid.

Last night we crossed from Clare Island, past the northern shore of Maghera Island and landed on South Galway Island during the night, at Inchamore. Sailing at night is always risky due to the unknown obstacles lurking beneath the surface of the waters. They could be houses, rocks, metal towers, or any other of countless obstacles drowned when the waters rose. Inchamore is at the apex of an inlet so it is especially dangerous. Still, the farmer who helped us lives there and we needed a haven for the two boats and ourselves. It was also imperative that we avoid detection by the Union. There is no way we can sail during the day so we will have to hide the day following the raid until darkness brings cover.

We chose the days for our attack so that the moon was in the gibbous phase. Full moons are too obvious to use for attacks or sailing. The Union guards will be on alert and any reconnaissance will be easier for the Union aircraft. I almost think travelling after the raid will be a greater risk than the actual attack. During the attack we will have control over the battle, knowing where the soldiers are and remaining hidden for much of the time. Travelling leaves us exposed and vulnerable to drones or troops. It is especially true when crossing water.

As our mounts cross the rough terrain I realise this would be impossible to traverse on foot quickly. Even the old roads that still resist the slow invasion of nature are cracked and overgrown in places. The area was once host to many small holdings but with the decline in population during the water wars the farmers abandoned many of them. As a result coniferous forests and small bushes such as yellow gorse cover much of the land, except where the treacherous bogs lie in wait. We will avoid the bogs. Old paddocks are easier to cross but expose us to enemy observation, so we stick to the forests where possible. When we have finished our raid though, we will use the roads and paddocks to escape south to Inchamore and then home to Carran across the sea.

There are ten of us riding single file through the forested mountains. Connor and I are the two leaders, each with three fighters. I have Ronan, Ciara and Sean, one of the men I met at the caves. Connor has Ryan, Ailin and Liam in his squad. The other two are Clare, who is married to Liam, and Padraigh, a recruit I only met when we started the training. The last two turned out to be sure shots with rifles, like me with my bow, so they will act as snipers, watching our attack from cover and protecting us during our retreat. Clare is here despite my protests that family members cannot come together. She is just too good a shot to leave behind. We almost left Liam behind but Connor wanted ten in the group. I did manage to convince Connor to leave Niamh, Brianna and Shar at home. Not because they are women though. I didn't want the sisters to both be at risk, Brianna is a mother and Shar, well Ailin is with us, but I couldn't bring myself to allow her to come. I could not bear to lose her; she is my single link to Panem.

Connor stops at the head of the line and waves Ailin past. He talks to each person as they overtake him, checking to see they are comfortable and calm. Between riders I see him glancing down the line at me, his expression unreadable. Considering the trouble I had with the horses, I would expect him to be concerned for my welfare. There are other issues, though, that are eating him and I cannot really blame him. Ever since the day at the cave, when they showed me the arsenal, when they sowed the seed of a return to my family, I have pushed Connor away. It is not his fault and it isn't fair, allowing him close and then rejecting his suit, but I cannot stop thinking that I am married.

I reach Connor and he swings into the line in front of me, perhaps knowing my pony will only walk at the back of the line. He crooks his left leg over the pommel so he is riding sideways as he looks back at me to talk. When he is like this, carefree and confident, he really is hard to resist. He has strength in him that is hard to ignore, a calm certainty that makes people want to follow him, makes them want to be his friends. And lovers? I know I have been tempted, and came so close. His sparkling eyes smile at me now and I feel a tinge of longing. Thankfully he interrupts my musing.

"It's been a few years since last I passed through Loughrea. I do remember there's a forest on the hill overlooking the lough, we can camp there tonight and use the day to plan our attack, see the layout of the base, work out the lines of attack. I know it is an extra day but I would prefer some caution, especially with the new ones," He says quietly. Ronan rides in front of him and I doubt he will mention Connor's words to the others. The three of us have been on many raids together and we have absolute trust in each other.

"What about the farmer? He will want his horses back," I suggest. The suggestion worries me because we did not bring blankets or enough provisions for two days. Internally I am not so keen on sleeping in the forest either. I know where Connor thinks he will sleep if we do extend our trip.

"Colm? No, he may fret over his horses but he trusts me, he knows they will come home."

"I understand the idea but it does increase the chances of detection. The new ones will also be more nervous if we wait. There is nothing worse than waiting to make your mind twist in on itself," I argue, even though I know I am going to lose. Connor has made up his mind and there is no doubt this stubborn Irishman will stand his ground.

"If we rush in tonight we will be unprepared. You and I will not know from where we are attacking. No, I prefer to watch for a day. And you owe me, anyway," he adds with finality.

He is right, I do owe him. I started training the new recruits in secret shortly after they revealed their weapons collection. I would co-ordinate with the others and train them in groups between my days teaching mathematics at the school, as part of my contribution to the collective. The training included subjects such as weaponry, tactics and fitness. Then one of the elders found out and convened a meeting at the Town Hall. The elder, Henry McHenry, wanted me banished but Connor stood up and took responsibility, saying it was his idea. His seniority and the fact he was Irish and male all counted in our favour. At no stage did anyone mention the store in the cave. After that he joined our training to help. The mistake I made was not including him at the start; he has yet to forgive me for not trusting him.

"Ok, but tomorrow night we go," I add, putting on a decisive air.

He winks, smiles and flicks he leg back over the pommel, facing forward again. I am left alone again at the back of the line, staring at the back of this man for whom I have deep feelings but who will never know how I feel. Another hour of riding does nothing to allay my confusion. I am married. I may never see my husband again, but until I am certain I can never return to Panem, I must remain faithful. I was convinced I could never go home until we went to the cave. One piece of advice my mother gave me was to treat people how I wanted to be treated. I want Peeta to be happy and I cannot expect him to be alone, especially since they told him I am dead. That doesn't mean I can do whatever I want, despite all I feel for Connor.

Ailin leads us into another section of forest where the ground vegetation has mostly died under the constant rain of sap and needles. Only a few bushes puncture the carpet of needles that dull the sounds of the horses as their hooves thump on the ground. Few birds are audible and a peace descends on our party. After half an hour the light increases ahead of us and we reach the edge of the forest, stopping short of breaching the treeline.

Below us to the north stretches a lake, a lough in Irish. It is shaped like an isosceles triangle with the short side on the north shore. The western side of the lake bulges out and the entire shape reminds me of the old flint arrowheads my father used to find in the woods where we hunted together. They were made by the first inhabitants of Panem, long before people with dark and light skins arrived from across the seas. Now I think of it, the fact someone came from over the seas should have told me there were places other than Panem. I should not have been so shocked when I first heard of Ireland in the Senate. Still, our focus back in 12 was survival so I guess I had an excuse of some sort.

Northward, beyond the lake, is the sea. The old town is still visible, partially-submerged buildings standing resolute against the surge of the sea that has flooded the area. Remnants of a dyke beyond the old village is evidence that the people tried to protect their homes from the rising water whilst a second, well-maintained dyke along the shore of the lake remains steadfast, protecting the lake from the sea. I admire the tenacity of the people that lived here, adamant in their choice to stay and fight against an indomitable enemy. Finnick told me once, that the sea was like a magnet to people. Some sit on the edge and watch its tireless movement whilst others enter its domain, whether in or atop, to face the ultimate challenge. The residents must be part of the latter, refusing to surrender to the inevitable.

What grabs my attention most are the wooden houses built that are built above the lake. They remind me of beaver lodges on the slow-flowing river near our lake at home. Ailin sees me staring at them and tells me they are crannogs. The bulk of the new village stands above the water on stilts supported by small mounds. Bridges link the buildings to each other and to the land, allowing the villagers to move through the village without often having to step on to land. The design is admirable. To protect against any attack the villagers could break the bridges and sit out on the lake in safety.

Along the eastern shore, running to the small port next to the abandoned town, stand four larger buildings. The function of the buildings is not immediately evident except for one, the largest one. Emblazoned across the two sides we can see the Union logo, a circle of yellow stars around the image of a single red rampant lion. Two armoured vehicles stand empty outside, providing an indication of the number of militia in the town. I initially baulked at attacking a militia base because they were mostly Irish, but my comrades insisted. The attack would be a sign that other Irish should not join the militia, plus we do not intend killing any of them. This is, of course, a contradiction to the amount of weaponry we are carrying but they wouldn't listen to me and Connor refused to enter the debate. He must have a good reason, maybe teach them a lesson.

We set up camp in the forest and eat cold food as the sun disappears behind the western mountains. It may be spring but the chill air still bites. Ronan helps everyone build lean-tos using the branches and foliage of the trees and bushes. As they build the structures Connor and I sit in a slight depression and analyse the layout of the buildings and land. We start to formulate a plan, which we agree we can only confirm tomorrow after watching the militia's routine for 24 hours. Connor doesn't say it but his facial expression has "told-you-so" all over it. When I half-heartedly suggest we go tonight Connor shakes his head, "No, we cannot attack on St Patrick's Day." And that is the end of my resistance. We wait.

That night we all take turns with guarding, two at a time in five shifts of two hours. The sounds of a celebration echo across the waters to our perch up on the mountain but they do not dent the sober mood of our group. All of us, even us three veterans, ponder the action we will face tomorrow. I take the first shift with Ailin and despite wanting to talk about Shar and their relationship I stay quiet, muttering only a handful of words before Ryan and Sean take over. I slip into the lean-to I am sharing with Ciara and drop into a restless sleep, constantly aware through the haze of semi-sleep that I am cold. The last time I slept in a lean-to I stayed warm by nestling with Connor. I am grateful when dawn finally drags us all from our bivouacs, even if it is to face a long day of relative inactivity.


	26. Chapter 26

Day 459 – Loughrea

Four hours ago I watched the sun set over the lake, lighting up the water with golden shimmering sparks, casting the crannogs as mutated water-gnats hovering over the water trying to catch the sparks. A flock of birds pulsed across the waters in an un-choreographed dance that held us spell-bound for nearly an hour. Their numbers provided protection from lurking hawks, the dance creating confusion, the hawk not knowing which individual bird to strike, and eventually giving up the hunt for the day. Now the unpredictable Irish weather has caught us unawares and we sit huddled in the trees to the east of the lake, less than half a kilometre from the militia base. The one vehicle that was on patrol returned sixty minutes ago, the four occupants scurrying into the building, hunched over as if that would stop them getting wet. The return means there are twelve occupants of the building. We are out-numbered but most of them will be asleep; we watched most of the lights in the building go out over the last hour. Surprise and stealth are our friends, as it has been on the raids we carried out before.

Clare and Padhraigh have dug in at the treeline with the horses, and my pony, tied up further into the forest. Floodlights around the building are evidence of a generator. The lights provide perfect illumination in the event Clare and Padraigh need to protect us from enemies near the building. They have chosen a slight depression where they can see both vehicles and the main door whilst remaining hidden from view. A few pine tree branches help conceal the position.

I adjust my clothing and equipment to allow for freer movement during the raid. My overcoat I drape across the saddle with my bow and quiver although after some consideration I swap my rifle for the bow. Rain isn't good for the bowstring and fighting indoors usually means the bow is pretty much useless. But I have a pistol holstered on each thigh for close combat, which I hope doesn't happen. Winning a fight at point blank range is purely luck. I keep my wide-brimmed hat on for now to keep the water from my face. When we are inside I will discard it until we are ready to leave.

I wave my hand and we start down the slope in pairs. My squad is first, Ryan and Ailin leading, followed by Liam and me. We spread out as we descend, aiming for the cover of the vehicles. I cannot see them but I know the other six all wait behind us, ready to shoot at the first sign of detection. Only when my squad is in position does Connor lead his team down and to the south, to the adjacent building. The rain muffles our movements, especially as we close on the base where it drums noisily on a metal corrugated roof and glass panels that provide electricity. Ronan and Sean reach their objective first and flank the door. Connor and Ciara disappear through the door, followed by the other two. We crouch quietly in the shadows of the trucks for three minutes until our four companions reappear and dart across the open space to our location.

"Warehouse, a few empty crates. Looks abandoned. No windows facing the barracks, although there is a single door at the back of the barracks," reports Connor.

"Good, could come in handy," I respond as a thought develops.

"The door or the warehouse?"

"Both," I say, although my initial thought was about the warehouse.

We turn our attention to the main objective. The front door of the barracks is made of glass and sits between two flat oblong windows. Light projects out the windows into the miasma of light rain, creating a halo effect. If anyone is watching they will see us easily and raise an alarm. The militia outnumber us and with little cover between us and the horses the situation is high risk. Every moment, every movement, is critical.

Ryan and I loop left, away from the building and the zone of light, coming back around to creep under the left window. Ailin and Liam do the same to the right. I peep into the window and see a militiaman sitting behind a long wooden counter on a high chair, reading, his green uniform jacket opened to reveal a stained off-white shirt underneath. Behind him a companion sleeps in a low armchair, head hanging back. The wall behind the counter has a door to the rest of the building. Pictures and notices cover the wall on both sides of the door. Above the door is another Union logo with a spotlight shining down on it, making it the focal point of the entire display.

I pause, wondering how we are going to enter the building and capturing the two men without waking or alerting anyone else in the building. Connor's squad joins us under the windows. Before we can devise a plan, Ciara drops her rifle, takes off her coat and starts moving to the door. Her plan is immediately obvious. Pretty girl, dark night, the men will be distracted.

"No, let me," I whisper harshly, not wanting her to take such a risk.

"Your voice is wrong, besides, there are posters of you," she whispers and proceeds to step to the door, swing it open, and stride into the front office. "Hello" is all I hear before the door closes. Liam and Ailin edge to the door as I peek through the window. Ciara has walked to the counter and then to the left, drawing the man's attention away from the door. His expression flicks from surprised, through suspicion to interested as he watches Ciara. She is, after all, a beautiful young woman. Which man would be able to resist a beautiful woman in need of help?

I drop down and ease the door open, pointing to the right. Ailin slips through and to the right, keeping low until the end of the counter, which he rounds, moving out of my view. My heart is thumping; my body is flushed despite the chilling rain. I trust Ailin but worry that something might go wrong. A grunt and a thud are our triggers to enter the room where we see Ciara looking over the counter. There is no sight of the militiaman. Liam moves to the right where the sleeper is still breathing noisily and pokes him with his rifle. The man jerks awake but has the presence of mind to stay quiet.

I signal Connor and enter the room, followed within seconds by the rest of the team.

"Sean, Ronan, keep your guns on them, shoot if necessary," orders Connor. Ciara steps out to recover her gear and then re-joins us. The remaining six of us line up near the rear door and then move through it silently, one by one. The first two we captured easily, thanks to Ciara, and I am hoping the rest will be this simple. We didn't come here to kill anyone, especially since it is a militia base. All militia are Irish, paid by the Union to support the foreign soldiers and the Garde. Many of them only do so for the money so Connor insists we try to capture them rather than harm them.

Behind the door is a wide, open area with five doors, three on the left and two on the right. Another door at the end of the corridor must lead outside. Chairs, lounges and a dining table are randomly dotted around the room. The only light comes from the open door behind us. We check the first two, one on each side. Ciara opens the first door on the left to reveal a storeroom with racks of supplies. She steps out with rope and string and I point her in the direction of the front room. The door on the right leads to a kitchen where a large thick wooden table dominates the central floor space. Wooden chairs stands in disarray around it. I am surprised; they even have a fridge to keep food cold and fresh. It is the first I have seen here in Ireland. Dishes and pots cover the one counter and I shudder at the odour of rancid food that wafts out the room. The second door on the left is locked so Ronan moves past it to the third door, which opens to show the ablutions and shower area. The acidic smell of urine attacks us and I cover my mouth and nose to stop from gagging.

The last door must lead to the sleeping quarters. Ciara rejoins us and we huddle as Connor signals how each should move in the room. Line up in the centre of the room, look for guns and knives. Then we switch on the light. We each nod understanding and quietly follow Connor through the door, stepping slowly across the bare concrete floor to minimise noise. I usher everyone in before crossing the threshold myself. Snores and snuffles punctuate the soft drum of rain on the roof. When each person signals they are ready I step back and tap the switch, illuminating the room suddenly with a cold white light. One or two of the militiamen jerk up with a fright whilst others do not even stir, so deeply asleep are they.

Connor is furthest along the space between the double rows of cots. There are twelve beds in all, six on each side. Two are empty on the right. He kicks a bed and then another, waking the inhabitants. Surprisingly the men do not cry out or speak a word. They all remain silent and motionless whilst staring at the rifles and pistols pointing at them.

Connor addresses the restrained men in Irish, asking them a question in a firm but friendly voice. After a moment one of the men responds, "Tá mé."

"We aren't here to hurt anyone, so do as we say and you will live to see your sweethearts," says Connor. We move the seven men to the main room and tie them up, seated in a row along the centre of the room, arms behind their backs, leaving them in their sleeping clothes. I can see a couple starting to shiver but covering them with blankets will hide their hands so I don't follow through. They watch us suspiciously. Perhaps we should have covered their heads, or at least worn masks. It is too late now though. We will need to review our methodology before the next raid, whenever that is. Ronan and Sean bring the other two militia into the room and tie them up with their comrades.

Connor has the commander unlock the rear door and the locked room and then shoves him across to Ronan who forces him to the ground before tying him roughly. The other men did receive the same treatment and my companions are usually civil with other Irish people. Did this commander do something that they know of? Something that has raised their ire? Connor is always pro-Irish, always positive about the Irish people. Our raids in the past have always targeted foreign troops because of his views not to harm his countrymen. So this behaviour surprises me.

I stand guard over the men with Ronan, standing behind them so that I can see their hands, as Connor and the other five starts exploring the other rooms. They quickly convene on the newly-opened room when Sean calls excitedly for Connor. Within minutes they are bringing packages out to the main room. The packages open to reveal treasures that draw gasps and laughter. Blocks of chocolate, cigars, bags of sugar, a large tin of coffee, and other luxuries rarely, if ever, seen in Ireland. Then they bring out boots, trench coats and other clothing, piling them up near the door to the ablutions. Last they lug out cases of ammunition and weapons. The weaponry includes explosives and rockets, small grenades and numerous rifles, including one machine gun with a tripod attached to the barrel. The foodstuffs gain the most attention though. Ciara opens the chocolates and starts handing them out amid sounds of pure gratification. The bittersweet flavour fills my mouth, bringing back memories of treats, and of hot chocolate, my favourite drink.

"Tooth…paste!" Liam reads awkwardly as he pulls the contents out of a box. I cannot resist the urge; I join him, leaving Ronan to guard our prisoners. It is not like we don't clean ourselves, we have natural toiletries, but they do not compare to modern equivalents I used back home in 12. I grab boxes to open them and discover shampoo, more toothpaste, toothbrushes, gel soap, razor blades and shaving cream. I want to scream out in joy but I restrain myself, thinking of my prep team and Effie all those years ago in the Capitol. Sure, I never took my personal image to the extremes they did but I certainly changed over the years from the dirty Seam girl to a more civilised woman. The prep team would never have lasted here in Ireland with me; it would have been their worst nightmare. Thinking of them tempers my thoughts.

"We need bags to carry," I say to the others, which they take as an order and disperse to find anything we can use to carry items.

"Too risky, we mustn't take anything," says Connor.

When I raise my eyebrows he adds, "what if there is a raid, the troops will find it and know where we got it."

"You can leave what you want but I am taking some of this," I say, gesturing to the toiletries. The thought of being clean, really clean, overwhelms any other urge or instinct. "And some of this too." I pick up a tin of hot chocolate.

"I don't like it," he says but I can see he has lost the argument with himself as he starts to look at the items in the boxes near me. Wrapping and opened boxes lay strewn across the floor. It looks like we are scavengers desperately looking for scraps. The commander behind me must see the same thing I do because he says something and starts laughing in a coarse cackle. Sean, who has returned with satchels from the sleeping quarters, drops them and steps aggressively toward the man shouting but Ronan steps between them, blocking Sean.

"What did he say?" I ask, temporarily forgetting my hoard.

"He said…" Sean starts, animosity both visible and audible.

"Sean!" It's Connor now, stepping forward to control the situation. He turns to me, "He said we are like a pack of scroungers, poor and dirty, common thieves. Don't worry about it, he is the real scum here, siding with the Union."

"You are the scum, and you are the reason our people have no food, no quality of life. We will hunt you down, we will find you all. Tell her what I really said, Connor. Yes, I recognise you, Connor Rourke, from your posters. You and that foreign whore of yours."

This time it is Connor that launches at him, too quick for Ronan to stop. His right boot crashes into the chest of the commander, knocking him to the floor with a thump. I hear something crack and the commander lets out a shrill scream. I think it is his wrist underneath him. The scream does not deter Connor, his following step is a swing into the man's ribs and I hear another crack, this time his rib, accompanied by another scream, more hysterical this time. Ronan and Sean pull Connor back, away from the writhing, groaning man. The other prisoners have tried to move away from the man on the ground, fearing they will become victims too. The rest of us stare in shock at Connor's attack.

"I'm OK, let me go," says Connor and pulls his arms from the weakening grips of the two men holding him. He kneels down next to the moaning commander. "It's you who should be hunter down, my friend. You hide behind the Union, abuse your own people. I should kill you, but you can pass a message to your lord when you sit at his feet, licking the gravy off his boots. You tell him, whoever he is, that we are coming for him and anyone else who supports the Union." He turns to the line of men, all wide eyed and leaning away from Connor, as if a few more centimetres will make them safer. "You hear me? Leave this place, leave the service, go to your families and start fighting for the right side. We can chase them from our land if we all resist together."

I have never seen Connor quite like this. All through our time together, even on raids, he has remained calm and controlled. In fact, I have not seen him lose his temper in the year I have known him. I can't blame him for hating the Union but he has had plenty of opportunities to vent his loathing. No, this is not related to the Union. Something else the man said angered Connor. Whatever it was, I am glad for Connor's reaction, the way the man insulted me.

Connor tells everyone to collect what they want, one bag each. "I need some paint, look for paint," I say, remembering the police station at Millstreet.

Each of us take items that are most important to us, or to someone close to us. I take toiletries for me and for Shar too. I can picture the surprise on her face already. Liam takes toiletries too, for Clare who is still up on the hill, covering the area with her rifle and wondering what is happening in the building. Sean finds some paint and brushes. I take a maroon colour and the biggest brush I can find and head out through the back door whilst everyone finishes collecting contraband and packing it.

When I return the others are ready to leave so we move the men outside into the rain. Sean stuffs a sock from the pile of clothing into the commander's mouth to stop his moaning. The others look miserable so I chip in, "Be grateful you are in one piece. Leave when we are gone, don't come back."

We place explosives by the front doors of the empty barracks and the two trucks, set on timers taken from the cave. This is the primary reason we came to Loughrea, to destroy the bastions of the Union on the island. It is a message to the Union, that the Irish people want them to leave. The second reason Connor selected the target, the militia base, was to send a message to Irish people working with the Union. Stop. Leave the service. Fight for Ireland instead. The key proviso was that no Irish should be hurt. Obviously the commander was an exception. I want to know what he did to warrant Connor's wrath but not yet. Later, when we are safe at Carran.

Minutes later we are all mounting our steeds, if you can call my pony a steed, when Padraigh calls out, pointing down to the valley where the bound prisoners sit at the limit of the barracks floodlights. One of the militia is on his knees on the slippery grass, wriggling frantically against his bindings. Despite the rain falling between us we can all see that his one arm is loose and is working on the knots holding the other one down.

"He can stop the charges," shouts Padraigh, and he leaps from his horse, pulling his sniper rifle from the leather holster attached to the saddle. He drops to one knee, pulls a bullet from a pouch and starts to load the rifle.

"No. Stop. Don't kill him. Get the rockets," orders Connor.

All the men are off their horses, unstrapping rockets from the saddles. The militiaman has two arms loose now. Padraigh fires a shot at the ground next to the man and he drops in panic, arms over his head. The other men are hunkering close to the ground, fearful of the invisible death that threatens them. Ronan is first to shoulder his rocket launcher. He aims and shouts a warning before there is a small puff of smoke, a thump and the rocket disappears into the dark between our location up on the hillside and the buildings below. I strain to see what he fired at and then the barracks erupts as the rocket strikes the front of the building, setting off the explosives planted there. The conflagration lights up the scene two seconds before the violent sound of the explosion reaches us.

The horses all rear, jump, whinny, neigh in fright and I only just manage to remain seated on my pony. Despite the sudden explosion I am not shocked. I recall the day Shar and I were stranded in Ireland, the day our two hovercraft were destroyed. The explosions were bigger than this though, due to the heavy weaponry combined with flammable goods on the craft such as oil and ammunition. The handheld rocket still does a thorough job on the front of the building though and flames start to spread across the barracks.

A second thump is almost lost amongst the tumult. I see Sean swing his empty launcher down as he grins, moments before one of the trucks is lifted off the ground like one of Stone's toys, as a ball of flame consumes the truck. I hear a third rocket launch but this time it hits the ground besides the second truck, leaving a small crater and spraying clods of wet mud across the area, some of which lands on the prisoners. Liam curses to my right and reaches back to his horse for another rocket. Ryan has the third and last launcher, which he aims at the propane gas tanks at the far end of the building. The rocket strikes the wall, punching a hole where the sleeping quarters are.

The men on the ground are all twisting and squirming in panic. They lie in the midst of the destruction which must be a lot more fierce from close up. The man who was trying to escape is not trying anymore; he is huddled up against two of the others. The only motionless person on the ground is the commander, who is unconscious. I smirk as I think what he will see when he awakens. There is little chance the Union will forgive him for allowing this to happen.

Ronan fires his second rocket at the remaining truck and scores a direct hit. The truck doesn't move but fire engulfs it. The two trucks are burning and the main building is aflame, lighting up the night, although not as brightly as before the attack. The floodlights are all dark, either bursting from the heat or going dead from the generator stopping. Only the warehouse remains standing and that is the way I want it. Sean launches another rocket at the propane gas tanks and this time he scores a direct hit. The detonation rips the side of the building apart, exposing the empty interior. The support structure collapses and the roof starts to cave in, almost in slow motion.

"Let's go!" Shouts Connor and the men mount rapidly, some still holding the launchers and rockets as they grab the reins. I look back as we gallop away, fascinated by the transition of the lakeside from peaceful rain-soaked shore to demolished, burning war zone. Still it doesn't shock me. I have witnessed worse destruction than this. It is nothing compared to the horror of destroying the Nut, an entire mountain in District 2 during the rebellion or the devastation that was previously the Capitol. Then I shudder as I recall the treacherous explosion that ripped my gentle sister away from me forever. The only satisfaction I find is the image on the side of the warehouse, illuminated by the flickering fires. The dancing light brings the Mockingjay emblem to life, making it seem like its wings are about to start flapping. I turn away from the scene to focus on keeping in the saddle as my pony struggles to keep up with the horses that are disappearing into the dark wet night.


	27. Chapter 27

Day 460 – Falling

Dawn is breaking to the east. The sun will soon try to peek under the hem of grey clouds to help light our way south. The sky on the horizon is a pastel pink but the clouds glow a fiery orange. All I can smell is wet earth, wet plants, and the sweat of my pony and me. Hot air from our mouths condenses as it hits the cold air outside our bodies, causing vapour to form every time we breathe, no every time we pant. Even the birds are quiet this morning, the drumming of the hooves on the path providing the only sound I can hear.

The going has been hard for us. The pony is struggling to keep up with the two horses and because of my inexperience I am using more energy than I should to ride it. Neither of us should be here, I think. The pony dislikes running like this and I am more comfortable on foot, making my own way through forests, tracking game. Even in the rain or snow I could find sure footing, feeling the terrain through soft leather hunting boots or moccasins. I travelled the woods every day for over four years in search of food, learning the location of every rock, every log, every hollow. Gale and I knew the trails that were safe and the ones that weren't. If there were changes after downpours we quickly learned what they were and adjusted our path. Now, however, I feel out of control, completely at the mercy of the pony. Colm and Connor can say what they want about riding, I know it takes a lot longer that one day in the saddle to master a horse, or pony.

Ryan and Clare pause halfway up a rise, barely visible on the twisting tree-lined pathway we are following. They had already suggested I ride with one of them on a horse to speed our progress but with the bags of goods we are carrying I rejected the idea. I also don't want the humiliation of conceding defeat. I will make it home on my own. I can see their frustration though, probably thinking they should have joined one of the other two groups, but it made sense for the married couple to come with me. The other three groups split east and west of our route south to reduce risk of the Union catching us all, if that were to occur. Connor took Ciara and Sean with him. Sean he wanted to watch and Ciara insisted on staying with Connor. Perhaps she doesn't trust the men her own age. The others split in pairs – Ailin and Liam, Ronan and Padraigh.

I reach my two companions and pull up awkwardly next to them, whoaing and cursing. At least I can stop the beast. We are all exhausted, I know I am and I can see visible signs of fatigue, especially in Clare. Last night after the tension of the raid we rode without stopping, until now. The two of them have been discussing our route. Ryan explains that they want to leave the road and enter a forest two hundred metres to the west for cover. Now that it is light and the rain has stopped we should be wary of airborne patrols sweeping the area. They watch me expectantly and I realise they want me to make the decision. It is a good one and I cannot think of anything else so I nod and we start along the lane, searching for a gap or low point in the barricade along the edge of the road.

We progress another kilometre before a low stone wall presents itself at a left bend in the road. Ryan canters his horse along the road and then swerves slightly to the right and pulling on the reins. The horse leaps across the wall in one fluid motion, with Ryan almost an extension of his steed. It is a magnificent sight, watching the two of them work so well together.

"You next," says Clare, a look of worry on her face.

"Should we not find a gate? There was one about two kilometres back." The horse launched itself over the wall with ease but I am worried about the pony.

"No time for that, every minute in the open is a risk. How about I take your bag, lighten the load," she suggests.

"You already have too much. Another bag may upset your balance. No, we will be fine. Won't we girl?" I say, patting the neck of my pony.

"Let's do it together then, I can guide you over," Clare offers.

My pony does do well following horses so I agree, although I suggest she jumps before me. Clare agrees and we urge our mounts into a trot, me bouncing gracelessly whilst Clare rocks in time with the horse's gait. Then we are running faster. My pony seems excited and starts to close the gap between us. Grip with your knees, Katniss. Feel the movement. Let the pony decide. Colm's words reverberate as I struggle to remain calm. We draw level with Clare, to her left, moments before we reach the wall. I shut my eyes and feel the pony suddenly tense before releasing like a coil spring, launching into the air. We are over!

A massive blow knocks us sideways, crashing into the wall and rolling, the pony squealing as she falls uncontrollably onto her side, flipping downside up and over me. The weight crushes my momentarily, knocking the wind out of me. My head hits the ground and a wave of nausea floods my nervous system, dimming all my senses and triggering my gag reflex. Then the pony is off my torso, rolling again as she squeals again. The roll ceases and I feel her weight crush my right leg underneath her.

From behind me I hear a painful sob from Clare. I recollect the sound of her horse pounding next to us as we launched over the wall. And I recall Clare crying out in alarm just as the blow hit me from the right. Something happened to Clare and her horse. I try to see but my struggling pony still has me trapped. I can hear Ryan screaming for Clare from a distance. The rough surface of the road is grinding into my leg as the pony rolls again. Then she is up but falls away from me and crashes against the stone wall before tumbling to the ground again. Her struggling slows as do her piercing cries.

I twist around and see Clare on the ground near me. Her horse is gone, I cannot see it anywhere. Clare sits, legs splayed across the ground, holding her left shoulder, a grimace across her face as tears stream down her cheeks. Ryan reaches her but stops short of touching her. He speaks in Irish and she nods. Her bag is on the ground a few metres away so Ryan fetches it and uses it as a pillow, propping her gently on it, before checking her shoulder. Then he is with me.

I haven't moved from my position on the ground, twisted and looking at the two of them. I have had injuries before. One time during the rebellion my spleen ruptured, another time my ribs broke. The pain I felt with the latter is closest to what I feel now, except this time it is my right leg. Before Ryan can check I know it is broken. I look down at my leg and although it looks straight I know there is damage to the bone. The immense pain cannot be from anything else.

"Don't touch it," I say to Ryan as he reaches me.

"What's wrong?"

"My leg," is all I manage. I am feeling cold, with perspiration all over my body. Ryan takes his coat off and spreads it over me.

"You are pale. Are you cold? Looks like you are going into shock. Breathe slow, deep, steady breaths. Close your eyes. I need to look at the leg."  
"My pony. Check my pony first. Is she OK?"

Ryan looks up and the way his jaw opens slightly tells me it is bad. He shakes his head as his eyes meet mine again.

"Help her, please," I beg, although I cannot bring myself to look in her direction.

"Katniss… we can't risk a shot…"

A shot? What does he mean a shot? Then it dawns on me. There was a time back in 12 when one of the horses broke its leg, just like I have now. The problem with horses, when they break their legs they were usually euthanased. They are too active and the weight of their bodies is too heavy for the leg to heal properly. The pony, if her leg is broken, won't be able to walk. She will die slowly. Shooting her will be a mercy killing. But as Ryan said, do we dare shoot her and possibly attract attention?

Ryan moves to my legs and draws out a knife, which he uses to cut my trouser leg. I hear a moan from behind me. Clare is in pain as well. "Tend to your wife. Did you cover her?" I ask Ryan. He is up and disappears behind me. A minute later he is back, this time without his woollen jumper, and finishes cutting my pants. I look down and can already see bruising and swelling.

"This is going to hurt a bit," he warns. I nod and lift my hands to my face, covering my eyes and gritting my teeth. The scream erupts despite my desire to remain quiet. Ryan is feeling the leg to find the break. The pain is so intense I want to scream again but instead, mercifully, I lose consciousness.

A muffled shot jolts me awake. I feel dizzy, hazy, like I did one time I drank white liquor with Haymitch. Except I know it isn't liquor that is affecting me. My body is traumatised from falling off the pony. The pony! I try to sit up but I haven't the strength and I collapse back to the ground. A scrunched up bag serves as a pillow, softening the landing of my head. There are trees around me and I realise I am in a forest. Time concertinas as I drop back into semi-consciousness and then reawaken when Ryan appears in my vision and squats down, placing his hand on my arm.

"The pony?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"It wasn't going to make it, I had to do it. Couldn't let it suffer," he replies, his muted tone signalling his distress at the act. I reach over with my left hand and place it on his, squeezing gently.

"How is Clare?" I ask, feeling guilty that I didn't ask about her before I asked about the pony. Have I become that callous that people are no longer important?

"Her shoulder was dislocated, luckily not separated or broken. I had to pop it back in. She passed out like you did. It was good you did, both of you. I had to move you both to cover."

Ryan tells me what happened. As the two of us jumped the wall Clare's horse reared left and crashed into me and the pony, knocking us into the wall and over. I managed to stay on the pony but when it rolled over me it broke one of the bones in my lower right leg. It is fortuitous that only one bone broke. After hauling me over the wall he dragged me to the forest. Once here he used branches and the straps from the bags to set a splint. He set camp as well, moving our equipment and the single surviving horse under the trees but not building a fire.

"Will Clare be alright?" I ask, understanding how distraught Ryan must be that his wife his injured. This is the reason I made the others stay at Carran. What if Ryan died or sustained injury? Could I live with both of them being lost? He nods as he looks down at her sleeping form and I see the love in his eyes. Perhaps it would be harder if one lost the other, perhaps it is better they are together. What if she was home and didn't know what happened to him. Like Peeta. No, I can't keep people separated again. They must make their own choices from now on. Except Shar. I won't let her fight.

It is midday now and the rain returns, providing some relief from the possibility of aerial detection but reducing light. Ryan breaks branches to create a lean-to over Clare and me. She wakes as he does so, struggling to raise herself up, wincing at the discomfort. He delays the lean-to to help her, kiss her cheek gently, before returning to his construction. I continue to lay next to her, scared to move and find out how bad my leg really is.

Ryan joins us, dripping with effort and rain water. We remain quiet for a long time, looking out at the mist the rain has created between the trees. My leg is starting to ache where the break is and I think of Peeta in our first Hunger Games. The pain he felt from the sword cut, that later led to the amputation, must have been immense. Despite that he continued on. I am not surprised. He was always the strong, brave one. He wasn't loud and brash but he was the strong one. He was the person I came to rely on. Now he isn't here and I have to be brave for myself. I can see in the glances between my two companions that we have a quandary and I also know I am the only one who can make the decision.

"Help me up, please," I ask, using my elbows to start pushing my body upright. Ryan takes my hand and slowly pulls me to a sitting position. "You have to leave…"

"No, we won't leave you," gasps Clare.

"You must. We can't all ride the horse and I can't walk. You need to leave, make it back to the boats before they launch."

"The Union will be back, they will find you." Clare again, and I want her to stop objecting. The longer this goes on the more chance of my resolve evaporating.

"Ryan, tell her," I say, appealing to his pragmatism.

He stands up and moves from the shelter, staring away from us, hands on his hips.

"Come on Ryan, you know I am right," I shout, frustrated at the indecision. "You need to get Clare home. How will you cope with two injured people? She can ride with you, but only if there are two."

"No Ryan. I won't leave her," interjects Clare.

"She's right Clare," he says, turning and approaching us again. "The Union won't kill her, she will get medical attention. It is her best chance. We can't help her by staying."

I take Clare's hand, squeezing slightly. There are tears in her eyes, distinct from the moisture of the rain. "It's OK. Ryan's right, I am a wanted woman. They won't hurt me. They'll take me to a prison, put me in a clinic and heal me so that they can punish me. Don't worry, I escaped from their best prison before, I can do it again. There is always hope." She sniffs and wipes the tears, not convinced but losing her conviction.

"We can leave the food for you," she offers.

"Don't forget some water, I can't drink the rain," I say with a smile, squeezing her hand again. She laughs hesitantly, trying bravely to lift her spirits.

Ryan busies himself, separating equipment and goods that they can take with them. He places food and water within my reach, ensuring it is easy for me to take whatever I required. An automatic pistol and two spare magazines are added to my hoard, after which he drags the remaining articles away from the camp and covers it with foliage. Perhaps when the Union finds me they won't have evidence I was part of the raid. Clare sits with me the whole time, saying little but providing companionship in the short time before they depart. When dusk has been and gone we say our goodbyes. Ryan helps Clare onto the horse and leads them away to the south, disappearing between the trees and the rain that seems to start falling harder. It's going to be a long night, I think, as I feel the chill soaking into me and my leg throbbing each time my heart pumps blood through the damaged area.


	28. Chapter 28

Day 461 – The Forest

I wake wet and cold. The shelter above me is soaked through and is dripping water in four places. It is cold, exacerbated by the rain. I'm going to get sick like this. But something else awoke me. The Capitol anthem! I hear the muffled tune in the distance. It used to be clearer, I must be sick already. A cough rasps its way out on cue, confirming my suspicion. I wait for the flash of tribute emblems and one does appear; my own. Am I the first to die? Why aren't there any others? And if I were dead would I see my own emblem? Maybe my tracker died. Did it get wet? With this rain I wouldn't be surprised. Well, at least they think I am dead and the torture is over. I hope Gale can hunt enough to feed my sister and mother, on top of his own family. He promised. Regret. I feel regret that I couldn't win and go home to Prim, like I promised. And regret I treated my mother so badly. I know she turned to stone when father died but I could have been more forgiving. Stone? Why does that sound so familiar? I cough again, a deep cough that tells me it is from the lungs.

The music doesn't sound as clear as it usually is. There must be a problem with the recording. And my picture… Well, it hasn't disappeared as they normally do but it isn't going away either. Instead it has diffused into a beam of white light flashing across the trees, shaded blue by the darkness as it flashing this way and that. My leg is throbbing with pain. It was Peeta's leg that Cato slashed with his sword, not mine. Why is mine hurting so acutely? Where is he? Did he leave me in the cave to find help. Maybe a gift from the sponsors. Some hot chocolate? I haven't had a cup of the sweet beverage for so long. I know if I can just get back I can have a cup, we took two jars of it. The music is a chopping sound now, irritating me. Can they not just turn it off? It sounds like a helicopter. Helicopter? We don't have helicopters in Panem, the Union uses them.

Another cough rattles out. My brain clears the haze and I realise where I am. In a forest, under Ryan's lean-to, built to protect me from the rain. There is a helicopter flying low near the forest, a spotlight scanning for people. Raiders. There is one here, but they won't find me, the lean-to blocks my view of the helicopter and vice-versa. I lie still, waiting quietly for the searchers to move on. Lucky there were no ground troops. The light flashes across my shelter once more and the flicks away as the helicopter moves south along the rim of the forest. Within a few minutes I cannot hear it anymore. They will be back though, of that I am sure. I should have called out, tried to catch their attention. Who knows how long before the troops come.

I turn my attention to my leg, which is pulsing alarmingly. The cut pants expose the leg to inspection and even in the moonlight shadows cast by the trees I can see it is swollen, inflamed from the trauma of the broken bone. The only good thing is that the bone did not puncture the skin when it broke, reducing the chance of infection. Ryan has set it straight and his splint is holding well. If I stay still and wait for the Union they will be able to mend the bone, perhaps operate and install a pin to help strengthen the leg. It has to be soon though, too long without proper medical care and I may walk with a limp the rest of my life.

I manage to drink some water and eat a bit of stale seeded farm bread. When I am done I carefully recover the food to keep the moisture out. The food helps calm me so that I am able to focus on my current predicament. I am alone in a forest, the only two people who know where I am are probably on a boat back to Clare Island, travelling to the safety of their home. My leg prevents me from moving and I am concerned if I do move that I will damage it further, possibly irreversibly. So I have to wait for someone to find me. That someone will be one of the Union patrols. The helicopter that flew by earlier shows they have spread out quickly to track us. There will be no leniency for what we did. Despite what I said to Clare they won't be taking me to prison. More likely there will be an execution, or perhaps they will hand me to Coin, to deal with as he sees fit. Either way I don't think I will ever see my friends in Carran again. At least I know Shar is happy, I don't have to get her back to Panem.

I doze off while it is still dark but when I wake it is daylight. The morning is bright despite the trees, almost as if there are no clouds. The silence I attribute to the absence of rain, which has contributed a consistent rustle and dripping the last twenty hours or so, since before Ryan and Clare left. My cough hasn't gone and a series of coughs shakes my entire body. Some water helps soothe my throat but I can feel the phlegm welling up. I have a cold, that is certain.

Scenarios about what will happen to me keep my mind busy for a while. I am sick, perhaps the Union troops will miss me as they pass by and I will die here under the lea-to. Do I have the strength to drag myself into the open field between the forest and the road? At least in the open I will be visible to aircraft and drones. I decide if they do not reach me by tomorrow I will crawl out the forest. I have enough food and water; it is the illness that concerns me. What if they do find me? I know they won't take me to a local prison. Would they take me back to the Rock? I could see Cronan and the other inmates. They may take some satisfaction that the other three escapees are still free and fighting the Union. No. That will not happen. The Union cannot afford negative publicity anywhere. No, if they don't execute me they will send me somewhere far away. Not knowing the geography of this part of the world I cannot guess where, but I am sure it would be inhospitable. The other possible location is District 13, Otwa. Coin would bury me deep underground, kept like a mole in the darkness for him to torment and torture for his pleasure and psychotic need for revenge. That would be the hardest, knowing I was back in Panem, so close to my family but not being able to reach them. I imagine Coin would show me vids of them and make sure they were suffering, just to get at me. My ultimate revenge would be to kill myself, end my life so that he lost the opportunity to feed his obsession.

The quiet in the forest, I realise, is suddenly more noticeable. There is no wind, no whisper of nature breathing. There are no birds can be heard either. Animals have heightened senses. Back when we were hunting we had to be careful not to move upwind of our prey so that they did not smell us. It was important that we also remained as quiet as possible, and kept to cover to avoid creatures seeing us, or our movement. For a successful hunt we had to be spectres in the woods. On the occasion we made a mistake the birds would go quiet, holding still and searching for threats. If they were startled or alerted again they would fly away. Now something has quieted the birds.

I reach out and take the handgun Ryan left for me, as well as the two extra magazines. Without checking I know there are thirty-six bullets, although I doubt in my defenceless position I will last to a magazine change. More weapons are hidden forty metres further into the forest but they are too far for me to reach in my current condition. There is nothing to indicate who is coming my way. A Union squad or some locals? I hadn't thought of the latter option before. Maybe I can make my escape. Hope flares for a second. I remain still, scanning the part of the woods I can see. There is a branch in front of me and I pull it toward me in an attempt to improve my concealment.

A cracking branch is the first indication of activity nearby, followed by footsteps and more sounds of movement. I doubt the people coming toward me would catch anything; they make more noise than a herd of domesticated cattle tramping through a corn field. The sounds measure the distance of their approach, fifty metres, forty metres, thirty… they walk in a line of six, just out of view. A voice calls, over where Ryan hid the weapons. Well, that is the end of me using the weapons. Now I can see them. Six men, three in militia uniform and three in Union grey. After an inspection of the equipment they spread out and start searching the area.

Now that they are here, my only chance of survival, I suddenly don't want them to rescue me. The thought of execution or imprisonment contradicts my instinct for freedom. I know I should call out to them, reveal my position, but I cannot. An urge to suddenly cough surges within me and I suppress it for as long as I can but eventually it overpowers me and I cover my mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the sound.

"Over here," says a Union soldier, pointing at my location. He cannot see me but the lean-to must be visible, given away by my cough. They converge on my position, rifles and pistols pointed at me. I slip my gun under some dead leaves but keep my hand on it, index finger hovering over the trigger.

The soldier closest to me sees me and raises his rifle to his shoulder as he calls for his companions.

"Don't move," he instructs, and I comply, not wanting to make any sudden moves. He may be nervous and anything could surprise him. An involuntary shot is as deadly as an intended one.

One of the militiamen pulls the branch lying in front of me to the side, exposing the full length of my prone body.

"It's her. She was there. She is one of the leaders. Her poster says Katniss Everdeen," says the militiaman. I recognise him now; he was the one who freed his arms before we blew everything up. I keep quiet as I look up at the six men standing in a semi-circle in front of me. Their threatening postures tell me I am in considerable danger, not from death but rather abuse. Sure enough, one of them confirms my concern.

"She deserves to be punished for what she did, don't you think?" says another militiaman, stepping forward.

"The captain says we need captives," says one of the soldiers, uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure, but he didn't say in what condition, hey," continues the militiaman. He is a thin, lanky man, with a shaved head and cruel face. We told him to leave the service but he obviously enjoys the power, the associated status. He doesn't care if ordinary citizens don't like him. Now he drops his weapon carelessly to the ground and kneels down in front of me. "We can all have a bit of fun before we take her back."

"There may be others," says another militiaman.

"Look. Her leg is broken, they left her behind. Typical of people like this, selfish to the core. No, she is alone." He looks around and when the others don't respond he laughs. "Well then, looks like it might just be me, darling."

He stands again and starts to drop his pants. My pulse is racing; I don't think I have ever been so scared. This beast of a human means to rape me, an injured and defenceless woman, lost and alone in a forest, and his companions are doing nothing to stop him. What drives a man to do this? We heard of atrocities like this during the rebellion; Soldiers abusing woman, taking from them what should only be given, never taken. A real man would never do this. Well, this man won't take it either. I will die before it happens. Besides, I am not as defenceless as he thinks. The others lower their weapons and one turns to walk away, muttering something about this being wrong.

"If you don't like it then walk away, like a puppy with your tail between your legs," taunts the man.

He turns toward me, exposing his genitals, and I take that moment to fire straight at them. The blast shatters the quiet. The man doesn't even scream, he just looks down at the bloody mess between his legs, before slumping to his knees and staring at me with surprise on his face.

Everything is happening in slow motion, my senses zoned in on the men before me. I fire again, catching the closest soldier in the chest, knocking him back. My third shot hits another soldier, this time in the gut. He doubles over, groaning. Besides the roar of my gun that is the first sound I have heard since I fired. The rifles are lifting, pointing toward me, when I fire my fourth shot at a militiaman. The bullet hits his rifle, shattering the stock and knocking it out of his hands, saving his life. For only a moment though. Another bullet smashes into his temple from the left, killing him instantly. The new attack distracts the last two men and they turn away from me. I shoot the last militiaman in the neck as the soldier who was walking away drops like a ragdoll.

Smoke hovers around me, obscuring my view of my surrounds. Someone else is out there but I don't know who. Whoever it is doesn't like the Union but may still not be my friend. I keep the pistol pointed out in anticipation.

A familiar voice breaks the quiet, "Katniss? Katniss, it's me."

He steps into view, carefully checking each of the bodies before coming over to me, kneeling and reaching to push my gun to the ground. I can't believe it. He has come back for me. We had agreed no-one would turn back. But he is here. I can go home to Carran.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

The relief overwhelms me and I sob aloud, tears welling and streaming sideways down my face. I release the pistol and reach toward him. Connor leans down and lifts me, holding me for the longest time as my body trembles against him. Slowly the emotion wanes and I regain my composure. I can feel my leg throbbing again but I ignore it as I cough again.

"You came back," I say into his shoulder, stating the obvious.

"Did you doubt I would?"

"We agreed no turning back."

"The only way forward is with you, I had to come back," he says, as he hugs me a tad tighter. I am not quite sure what he means, but I hold the embrace, grateful for his presence, grateful that he didn't abandon me. I realise his arrival was timed almost perfectly.

"If you hadn't arrived when you did…"

"I arrived a few minutes before but hid, hoping they wouldn't see you and would move on. My concern was killing them all before they shot one of us. You took care of that, though. Do you always have a gun next to you when you sleep?" A laugh accompanies the last words and it breaks the mood.

"Only when Irishmen come a-knocking," I reply, but keep my arms around him. When he suggests we need to go I lean back, caress his cheek, and kiss him, giving into the moment and the feelings I have for him.


	29. Chapter 29

Day 500 – Recovery

"Mo ghrá thú."

"I love you too, darling," I reply, surprised by his words.

He stands nervously next to me and then suddenly leans across to give me a hug.

"You are the best teacher."

"Thanks Breandan. You're one of my favourite students," I say, smiling warmly at this shy boy who in four weeks has infused himself into my heart. First it was a small posy of daisies, then one of anemone, then an apple that I am sure he took from the pantry without permission. I try not to treat him as my favourite but he has become dear to me. Breandan is ten, the same age as Stone would be back home. He doesn't have a mother; she died of disease before his father brought him here to Carran. I think he has an idea I could be his new mother. One day he insisted on introducing me to his father, a bearded farmer named Glendan, who is ten years younger than me. We both smiled knowingly and quickly said our goodbyes. The rest of the school consists mostly of boys and girls from the village, with the rest walking in daily from the surrounding farms.

I teach them mathematics and English, as well as music. Two other teachers, Sheelagh and Teagan, cover other subject such as Irish Language, History, Science and Crafts. They were extremely grateful when I joined them at the school. Teaching all the children between the ages of six to fourteen is taxing. The subjects I teach are those I learned when I was young. I doubt I could teach a boy woodwork, a girl how to sew, or the history of Ireland. Being on crutches I couldn't really do any physical work so teaching was an obvious choice. And I love working with the children.

Their fun outlook on life has been infectious. Shar and Connor mentioned at dinner four days ago that I was different, that I seemed happy. I took offense until I realised they were not criticising my past but rather celebrating my present. The deciding factor was Ailin, he who rarely speaks. As I was objecting to their assessment Ailin interrupted, "Perhaps you've found what you were looking for." That stopped me mid-sentence.

His words lingered, even after I had gone to bed. The week had been unseasonably hot, with temperatures rising over 20 degrees Celsius for the whole week. Even the nights were above 10 degrees. I kicked off my thick duvet and lay in my nightgown, staring at the feint moonlight that shone through the open window. A breeze carried the scent of spring flowers through the window too, disrupting my senses. So I lay in bed pondering Ailin's words.

Have I really found what I wanted? For the longest time all I wanted was to make it back to Peeta, Jewel and Stone, my family. Then doubt crept in and I wondered if that were true. Was I secretly revelling in the chance to live a less quiet life, escaping from prison, fighting the Union, being a rebel in hiding. When I realised I would never make it back to Panem I did take some time to accept my fate, but perhaps now I have moved on from the initial desire. Teaching has been fulfilling for me and my relationship with Connor, although not consummated, has grown deeper with the passing weeks.

"Will you sing to us again?" asks Breandan, his young face alight with hope.

"Yes, I'll sing to you. You can even choose the song."

"Your songs are the best. I'll tell the others," he says, and runs off to where the other children are playing or eating their morning snack. I sit watching them in the clear balmy morning until Sheelagh strikes a triangle to signal the start of the next lessons. Sheelagh is a birdlike, friendly older woman with a heart of gold. Her love of the people is surpassed only by her love of the children. She is Scottish, which they tell me is on an island to the west. She and her husband left their homeland many years ago but they have settled in Carran and become an indispensable to the community.

I lift myself off my chair, hoist my crutches under my arms and make my way to my classroom. The doctor took the cast off at the beginning of the week but I must still use the crutches for another week. I have started walking short distances although I still feel some weakness in the bone. The muscles have deteriorated as well. I will need to exercise to rebuild my strength, like I did on the Rock. Only this time I can run wherever I want.

The fifteen children in the youngest class have taken their seats before I enter the room, eager for our music lesson. News of my commitment to Breandan must have spread through the class. Their eager eyes and broad smiles are full of anticipation but I decide to tease them a bit longer by starting the formal music session. They hide their disappointment so well and show discipline in running scales that I give up after ten minutes and call them all to sit on the rug. A cheer rings out as chairs scrape on the concrete floor and small feet tap out a stampede as the fastest children claim the spots on the floor closest to my chair.

I ease down onto the chair and, after they have all settled, I ask Breandan which song he wants.

"The cat one, with the dog and pig," he says.

I laugh because it is one of his favourites. The song is a nonsense song I made up for Jewel and Stone when he was only five. It doesn't even have a title, or even an ending. Stone loves it especially because we can sing it over and over, the last words rolling into the first. Jewel would try to mix the words to confuse him, to make him stop, but he always managed to start again until Peeta or I stopped him, usually with lots of tickles, the song degenerating into hysterical giggles.

"Ok, here we go," I say, and start the song.

The cat ran on the window ledge, but it had such a fright

It saw its own reflection, and jumped out to the right

The cat fell on a thorny hedge, which was a funny sight

She jumped so far up in the sky, she only came down at night.

The dog slept on the shaggy rug, all curled up in a ball,

The cat woke him with a shock, as she scrambled down the hall.

The dog performed a backward flip, and down the stairs did fall,

He landed on the butler's back, who lurched across the wall.

The butler fell down in the sty, where the pig was eating a spud

He tried to stand but slipped again, and plopped down in the mud,

He slid into the farmer's field, where a cow was chewing its cud

And bumped into a grumpy horse, who kicked him with a thud.

The flying man crashed into the wall, and shook a little nest,

The bird was angry at the man, for interrupting her rest.

Our feathered friend flapped her wings, in the hungry kitty's sight,

The cat ran on the window ledge, but it had such a fright…

"Again…" "Again…" "Don't stop…" they are all shouting.

"No, not again, not today. We have lessons..."

Breandan stands, "Can you sing a song for you, not us?"

"OK, just one song," I say, thinking immediately of a song I have been humming and crafting these last few weeks. I am not usually one to write songs but these are children, they won't understand the song, they just want to listen to my voice, or perhaps miss lessons. Maybe the latter more than the former. "Sit down on the carpet."

insert song of home

For a short time the children stare after I finish the last notes. I expect them to say something but the surprise for me is the sound from outside the room. Standing at the door is Connor, with Sheelagh and Teagan. Behind then and peering through the room-length windows are the other thirty-three children that attend the school. They are all clapping, except Connor, who stands and stares at me with melancholy in his eyes. Why would he be sad? Perhaps it is the content of my song, or perhaps that in close to a year and a half he has never heard me sing.

The attention makes me blush but Teagan rescues me by calling for quiet and for all the children to go back to class. She is the stricter of the two teachers; I am surprised she allowed her class out. The crowd slowly disperses, except for Connor. He wants to talk to me but Niall, one of the youngest children, asks, "Miss, what is a butler?" I explain that a butler is a man who works in someone else's house, thinking that the first butler I saw was in President Snow's palace. Then I send them to their desks as I limp outside to speak with Connor.

"What is it?" I ask with a smile, trying to lift his mood.

"They're back," he says, and I know there is something wrong from the dark shadow on his visage.


	30. Chapter 30

Day 501 - Liam

The death of our friend Liam caused widespread grief in Carran. His parents are distraught, as are all his other family members and friends. Clare, our sharp-shooter, has been stoic in her response to her husband's death. We know she is hurting inside, but she has turned her anger and pain toward our enemy. Liam was a well-liked man who helped build the aqueducts and reservoirs, as well as maintained the electricity generation equipment. The funeral shut down the village except for the school, where some mothers cared for the youngsters of the village during the event.

The questions raised by his death split the community. Most people were not aware of the attacks we had launched at Loughrea and now at Manister to the south. When I was injured we explained it away by saying Connor and I had been horse riding to teach me how, which wasn't that far from the truth. Now that everyone knows what we have done many are opposed to it. They believe that the Union will seek revenge and retaliate against the Irish people. They are specifically concerned that the Union will attack Carran if they find out where we have based ourselves. Others are behind us all the way, especially when we told them the local Carran people initiated the missions, that Connor, Ronan and I were only training them.

Before the funeral the elders of the village drove a motion in the council to have the raids banned and to have my small group exiled. The council session was restricted to a few interested parties, mostly people who supported the motion. Then Clare and Ryan stopped the meeting and insisted on a public meeting and vote. They argued vehemently for change and action. The argument for Carran being a safe haven they countered with a question to parents about the safety of their children and a picture of a free Ireland. They used me as a potential route to victory, that I could raise support in Panem. In the end the younger adults voted for change and for us to stay. Suddenly we had twenty more volunteers.

We all gather back at the house of Ailin and Shar after the funeral to say our own private farewell. Everyone who was involved with the raids or even just the training is present and some recall memories of Liam. We toast his bravery and vow to continue the raids in Liam's memory. "It is what he would insist we do," said Sean, "We need revenge."

"No, there is no call for revenge. Revenge makes you emotional, it skews logic and makes for bad decisions. No, we continue for Liam's dream of a free Ireland. It is the dream we all have." Connor is quick to bring Sean down a notch, making sure he doesn't adversely affect the others. Sean is a hothead, we saw that many times, like on the Loughrea raid. Connor has contained him for now but I can see there may be issues later on. We will need to watch him.

When everyone except our core group has left Shar starts a meal for us. Ronan disappears outside despite a light rain and as Conor and Ailin are helping Shar I decide to follow Ronan, finding him sitting under the cover of a tree, on one of the wooden benches that Ailin makes in his spare time. I take his hand and rub his arm, providing silent support.

He finally starts talking, pain in his voice, "There was no way we could have known. Everything was going well until we left. It was just like the raid in Newbridge. We bumped into the patrol, them coming in, us going out. Except they were on foot and there were twenty of them. We retreated, back past the station. We were almost away when Liam took a bullet in his back. We escaped into the dark, carrying him with us. He died during the night. Bringing his body back stretched our travel time. I don't know what I could have done better…"

Ronan lapses into silence, internally questioning his own role of leader. He sits unmoving, a carving of grief. His shoulders are slumped, his head resting in his hands. His elbows rest on knees spread wide. He is a leader, the depth of responsibility he shows is proof thereof. Saying something now won't appease his grief though. In all the raids we conducted this is the first where we have lost someone. I doubt it will be the last though. It was also the first without Connor and me. That wasn't a factor though; everything Ronan did was well thought-out.

"Ronan, you can't blame yourself, it isn't your fault. If anything, it was mine. I didn't share my thoughts from the Newbridge raid. I had a plan, to set guards further out. Something like we did at Loughrea, with Clare and Padraigh up on the hill…"

"There was no hill," he says, talking down at the floor.

"Exactly Ronan, it was totally different. I left you alone, you did well to get back with only one person lost," I say gently, almost in a whisper. I reach out and place my hand on his thigh, and wait.

"We cannot rely on you always being around. What if you… what if you go home?"

The pause was sudden, as if he caught himself saying something he gathered was insensitive. Adding the last part was a recovery.

"You meant if I died, didn't you. We all die, Ronan. You of all people should know that."

"I won't lose you too, not like them," he blurts out, finally looking up at me. The painful memory of his parents, killed by the Union, has driven him. I felt at times that I had a family. Connor and me, Ronan and Isabella. Matteo was the son-in-law. Ronan's words, the depth of his feelings, tells me it wasn't just me that thought so, that this amazing young man could see the bonds we had formed. I struggle across to his bench and hug him tight, like I would my own children when they were in pain. He is part of me now, I see that clearly.

"Ronan Hughes, I am not going anywhere, and I am not dying. I intend to be here when you marry and give me grandchildren."

That makes us laugh, which brings Connor out the kitchen and into the back yard. He says nothing, and I am glad for it, because with my thoughts of family, if Ronan and I felt it, I wonder how Connor saw our time after the escape, before we found Aiden. I get the feeling I know the answer, from the contented look he gives me.


	31. Chapter 31

Day 510 – 8 May

My leg aches by the time my five kilometre mountain trek is finished. Frustration at the slow pace of my recovery has driven me to push harder, too hard perhaps, running frequently during my walk. I never did know how to back off from a challenge. The choice of following the road or the mountain trail was obvious, the trail won easily. Smooth roads won't strengthen my leg as quickly as the unpredictable, rough terrain of the mountain paths. That is the good part, the bad part is pain, but I have endured more than enough physically and mentally in my life. This pain is easy to handle.

I ease the front door open in an attempt to keep noise down. The others should still be sleeping this early in the morning. Although Ronan is usually awake with first light I wanted to walk on my own today. Today, of all days, I want to be alone for a while. I have always concealed my birth date from the others. The fuss of birthdays always leaves me self-conscious and paranoid, as if knowing my birth date gives a person a power over me, providing the ability to delve into who I am and what my future will be. Not that I believe in future-telling.

One of the older women in the Hub, back in District 12 when I was younger, used to throw bones on a goat-skin for money, telling people what the future held for them. Her wild black hair was all matted up in thick rope-like strands, her flaring black eyes would stare at you from her dark visage and pierce the depths of your mind. All the children were scared of her, except Gale. He didn't believe she could see the future and would sometimes mock the people that gave her food or trinkets for a session. "Let me tell you the future: you will be stuck here in 12 the rest of your life, you will live and die poor, shackled by the Capitol", he would say.

My care is rewarded with an uninterrupted journey to my room, where I grab a towel and duck into the bathroom. The first shower of the day is always the best. The water is starting to warm up but isn't too hot, it is soothing and refreshing at the same time. I still marvel at the ingenuity of the electric-less system that provides me with hygiene and pleasure at the same time. The water runs over my head and down my long hair to my back, cleansing me of the trail and the confusion of life, if only for a few minutes. It is with reluctance that I finally shut off the water and finish the rest of my morning routine of cleaning my teeth, dressing in a cool pale-blue dress that reminds me of my mother's dress, the one I wore to the reaping for the 74th Hunger Games, and brushing and braiding my hair before heading downstairs, intent on scavenging for some leftover food or some berries.

The house is far more quiet than normal. By this time someone should be up and about. We didn't do anything unusual last night so there is no reason for them all to be sleeping in. Still, it isn't my problem; I have to head to the school to prepare for lessons before squad training in the afternoon. I find bread and soft cheese, and onion marmalade to smear on the bread. I create a sandwich with six layers that is too high to fit in my mouth so I squeeze it flatter and almost unhinge my jaw taking a first bite. Then I shuffle softly out the front door and head to school.

The weather is changing again, from clear to cloudy and I can tell there will be rain before midday. I like to see how accurate my weather forecasting is. Just like fortune telling, predicting weather is a guessing game. Sure, you can tell it will be colder in winter than in autumn, or warmer in summer than spring, but that doesn't provide the detail needed for a comfortable life. Back in Panem the Senate set up a scientific body to start providing forecasts because the Capitol residents complained they needed to know what to wear, and what activities to choose. In the Districts, and here In Ireland, we lived a more practical life, a tougher life. Changes in weather don't affect us that much, only the big changes life monster storms, or no rain for months. Not that Ireland would ever have a drought. It rains just about every day here. That is something I can forecast: "Today, it will rain!" Ninety-five percent accuracy, guaranteed!

The school is empty when I arrive. By this time of morning children should be running around chasing each other, playing hopscotch or kicking a round leather ball. Is it Saturday, I suddenly think? I must have confused myself, I thought yesterday was Thursday, but it must have been Friday. To be honest, I cannot remember what happened on Friday. I usually do lessons and then go out to train the squads. Maybe I have been pushing it too hard with all the lessons, training and exercise. Perhaps I should have a day off, stay at the house and knit with Shar. She has been making clothing to sell to the people on the island. Not that my knitting is nearly as good as hers. I can do the stitching maybe.

I am about to head back to the house when I realise my birthday is on a Friday this year. Where is everyone? I walk across the open play area to my classroom and open the door, not sure what to expect. What I find is all my students eagerly awaiting our lesson, giggling as they watch me enter the room.

"Good morning children, why are you at your tables? Class won't start for an hour yet," I say, bemused by their eagerness. A few laugh aloud in response, others giggle. As I walk to the teachers' desk none of them talk or rise from their chairs. Some of them are looking at the chalk board behind me and I swivel to see scribed across the board 'Happy Birthday Ms Everdeen!' and beneath it, in Irish 'Lá Breithe Sona!'. How did they know? I kept this secret. I didn't tell anyone.

The children all laugh harder and I hear a scuffle at the door. At the door stands Shar, Ailin, Ronan, Connor and Farrell, with my two colleagues behind them. The other two classes of children file into the room and make their way to stand at the rear of the class, behind the seated pupils. Then the adults walk in and stand in a line near the door. All the time I have stood still, wondering how this could be. "How…?" is all I manage.

Shar steps across and hugs me. "Happy Birthday. Remember, everyone who went to school in Panem knows your birth date."

"Traitor, sharing state secrets!" I say, unable to be angry with her.

"Connor asked when you first arrived. I didn't realise it was a secret," she replies nervously, confused by my conflicting words and smile.

"It's not, I guess it's part of history."

Then the children, all three age groups, start singing a birthday song for me, first in Irish.

Go raibh tú sona inniu,

Go raibh tú sona inniu,

Go raibh tú sona, Máire Ní Everdeen,

Go raibh tú sona inniu!

The tune is the same as the one we use at home, the words the only difference. I can't remember a group of forty-odd children sing for me before and it brings tears to my eyes. It is beautiful though, their sweet soprano voices perfectly out of sync, and I do not bother to hide the tears as I walk to them and hug them in clumps. Breandan is waiting at the side and when I have hugged the rest I pick him up and hold him hard to me, his feet dangling, my happy tears wetting his cheek as well as my own.


	32. Chapter 32

Day 535 – Ronan's Raiders

It was obviously a trap. Well, perhaps it was obvious for me. I spent years learning designing and building traps. I learnt the guile, the art, from my father and from Gale. The thought of Gale's traps, the epitome of cunning, ingenuity and ruthlessness, sickens me as I think of it and a moment that destroyed a part of me forever, when Coin dropped small bombs on a group of children, and then, as medics from the rebellion that included my sister Primrose Everdeen went to care for the injured, exploded a larger, more devastating bomb. A more cold-blooded and despicable act I have never seen before or since.

Ronan and some of the others conducted a raid five days ago, successfully destroying a communications tower south-west of Cork. On their way back a local informed them a new barracks was standing empty near Curraghalicky Lake Town, waiting for fresh Union troops to take occupation. What a target, what a blow it would be to demolish the building! It was Ronan's call. Not having any way to consult with us he made the decision in the field, under pressure from his team, filled with adrenalin and bravado from the triumph of blowing up their target. After the last year we forgot he was still so young. I should have taught him more; I should not have let him go without Connor or me.

The problem is my strength is not one hundred percent, and we all agreed I should sit this raid out. I have been training hard, not walking with some running, or even running with some walking. Now I can run a full ten kilometres without halting, but I am left gasping and my leg aches, although less and less each week. Connor was the one who suggested Ronan lead the raid. I never queried why he suggested it. Did he feel Ronan was ready for leadership? Or was his only motivation his desire to stay with me? Our relationship has strengthened and matured over the last months since he rescued me from the forest. We spend most days together, except for the times I teach the children, train our commandos or when we sleep.

Ciara follows Connor, weaving through the bushes ahead of me. She has probably spent the most time with us since my fall from the horse. At first she was the perfect nurse, helping Shar with me each day. Whenever I needed assistance with my personal hygiene, or my bedding needed changing, she was there. Except now I think it was an excuse for her to spend time with Connor. She dotes on him. Even when he took me into town in a wheelchair Ailin crafted she would join us, caring for my every need but always looking to Connor to see his reaction to her deeds. At first she vied for Ronan's attention but he favoured her sister. I think she sees Connor as her next best option, despite the gap in their ages. She is subtle, I give her that. I haven't mentioned it to anyone though. Although Connor and I are close I still have a husband and Connor is not mine to fight for.

It is early morning and heavy rain pelts my face, blown by a cool south-westerly wind that is intent on driving us back from our target. Connor thinks the weather will clear for our afternoon assault but I hope not. This will be our first daylight sortie, and with good reason. I have no doubt the Union is holding Ronan in the small village jail as bait for the rest of us, or at least for Connor and me. Why would they make sure everyone knew where he was by announcing it to the villagers? They made it look like a propaganda announcement but I know better. The team took some convincing but in the end Connor stepped forward and supported my analysis. If you know there is a trap, it is possible to spring it and still live. The one good thing about Buttercup I admit to, he was a good mouser. Before Prim adopted his scrawny carcass we had a major problem with rats. We set traps but once they worked out how to spring the traps they would escape with their lives and the goat's cheese. So now we need to be as wily as the rats, and hope there isn't a cat waiting in the shadows.

The reason I chose a daytime rescue was that all our previous raids have been at night. My guess is the Union will be at highest alert during the night, expecting us to use our standard modus operandi. We need to stay a step ahead of them. If they are resting in preparation for night operations then we can surprise them. I only hope they have no surprises of their own. Luckily the weather will prevent helicopters from flying.

What we do know is that a platoon of soldiers awaits us. Ronan was captured holding off a squad of Union soldiers that were hiding around the empty barracks, allowing the rest of his squad to escape into a forest. The others watched as Ronan ran out of ammunition and surrendered. They followed to find out where he was taken and then sent one of the new soldiers back to Carran to call us. When we reached the watchers they reported troop numbers and equipment. Their reconnaissance, considering their experience, was exceptional.

I can only imagine how Ronan feels. After his time in the Rock he was adamant he wouldn't go to prison again. The dehumanising confinement, the isolation from the world, he loathed it all. Our runs in the morning gave the two of us an hour of escape from the reality of prison life. Ronan was so young when he was sent to the Rock, he missed three years of his youth. I doubt he will ever forgive the Union for that. Yet, when the time came he sacrificed his freedom for that of his companions. The others are already talking about it, about his sacrifice and leadership.

Behind and ahead of me are twenty-three other fighters. Connor and I are the two with the most extensive experience. Ailin comes next, then the others from the Loughrea raid – Clare, Padraigh, Ryan, Sean and Ciara. The other fourteen are yet to be blooded but we need the numbers and I guess they have to start sometime. Besides, they trained hard the last month, since Liam's death. We had to temper them during training, make them understand fighting for revenge is as close to suicidal as a soldier can get. Now, here I am, leading the group to rescue Ronan, to wreak revenge on the Union for daring to take him from me. Hypocritical? No, because I understand my motivation and I can stay calm. Years of hunting, staying calm regardless of how hungry I was, taught me not to panic.

Connor stops ahead of me and Ciara barely manages not to knock him over, she was that close behind him. I am going to have to talk to him about her, it is getting weird, the way she shadows him. I reach his position as Ailin does the same from the front of our column.

"The prison is over the next ridge. We need to decide what to do," says Ailin, wiping water from his face and beard. His clothes, like the rest of us, are soaked through despite wearing oilskin coats we adopted as part of our unofficial uniform. The coats do help with light to moderate rain and are great for hiding weapons, although my bow is too bulky to remain inconspicuous if I am moving.

"Let's get a view of the area," suggests Connor, but Ailin shakes his head. "Visibility is poor, I'll describe the valley to you."

The six squad leaders spend the next thirty minutes deciding tactics and deployment. Two squads will remain in reserve with Connor, waiting for the predicted counter-attack. I will lead the main attack, approaching from the four cardinal points. We have hand guns, rifles and four rocket-launchers with two explosive rounds each. We are also carrying gas rounds that knock anyone close by out if they do not have gas masks. This is how we expect to gain access to the prison. We will only need to incapacitate the soldiers to be successful, and we have enough men to carry Ronan if he is affected. Not that all our troops appear happy with just a rescue. They want revenge for the man who has become their real leader. He is Irish, he is young, he is charismatic and intelligent. He has earned their respect and loyalty. They have even taken to calling the group Ronan's Raiders.

Each squad leader briefs their three soldiers and we move through the trees and gullies into position. Now I am sure Connor agrees with me that the rain is a blessing rather than an hindrance. As we sit waiting out the agreed time needed for the squads to reach their positions I ponder our successes. It helps to keep the nerves calm.

The biggest success, I believe, is that resistance has sprung up across the entire Irish archipelago. Messages keep coming in with travellers and visitors that people are attacking Union buildings, vehicles and equipment. One woman, visiting her brother, tells us of a strange bird in a circle, painted on the side of a police station. She said it looked like a red raven. When Connor overheard her he mentioned that he had seen it too, in Millstreet. "No," was her reply, "it was in Thurles". He later explained to me that Thurles was north of Cashel, north of the Rock. We had not been anywhere close to Thurles since we had escaped, avoiding going near the place where we were imprisoned, where Connor was tortured, where they broke his hands but not his spirit.

A bird whistle, faint and to the south, alerts us that it is time. I try to wipe the moisture of nervous perspiration off my hands but my wet clothing exacerbates the problem. I end up reaching under my coat to dry my hands somewhat. A deep breath, in, out, in and out again, then I nod to the three young fighters with me, Kenneth, Brady and Saoirse, indicating it is time. Kenneth whistles a matching bird call and we hear a response from the north. We each cover our face with a soaked handkerchief, ready for the entry into a gas-filled building. In a tight formation we edge forward through the rain toward the building watching in all directions. I was surprised we did not encounter any guards or patrols. I guess no-one in their right mind would be out in weather as oppressive as it currently is.

Then the prison is in front of us and my already over-active heart goes into over-drive. Brady hoists a rocket launcher over his shoulder and drops to one knee to steady himself. Saoirse loads a gas rocket into the tube, prime it and steps back to tap Brady on the shoulder. He pauses for a few moments before triggering the weapon. Rockets are quite disappointing to fire, just because they look more lethal than a rifle. You expect a massive roar and a trail of fire and smoke to mark the rocket's path, but it is the opposite. There is a puff of sound and smoke, a bit like a gunshot but not as harsh, with a small cloud of smoke. Then you wait for the disappearing point of light that is the rocket to hit, hopefully your intended target. Brady's rocket streaks away toward the building, the sound carrying enough for the other three squads to start their count. Ten seconds between launches.

A smashing of glass and a muffled explosion indicates that the first rocket has penetrated the walls. I resist the urge to chase the rocket in, despite my eagerness to reach Ronan and extract him. Because I know what is coming. I listen to Kenneth's slow count to ten, three times. Each count terminates with a thump as the rocket launches, followed by a crash. Even before the second we hear voices starting to shout out, quickly followed by gunshots. We all flatten out in long wet grass as we continue the count. The fourth rocket strikes and then there is silence, except the pattering of the rain that cloaks us. We wait another count of ten then are up and sprinting toward the prison, spreading out as we go. My three cohorts arrive before me, bracketing a broken window. The attack is going according to plan and at the pace I want: efficient and fast.

"Careful inside, don't shoot our own people," I warn, before clearing the rest of the glass from the window with the butt of my rifle. I step in and dart right to a desk. We are in an office of some sort. The others follow and we scan the room for danger. An officer lies on the floor halfway between the desk and the inner door, his arm stretched out in a desperate attempt to reach help before he passed out from the gas. I take a pistol from his belt and tuck it into a pocket. Not because I am worried he will wake up and use it, more because we need all the guns we can get, no use leaving any behind.

"Kenneth, open the door. Saoirse, through the door and left, Brady, go right, then both hold," I instruct. They quickly execute my orders and when there is no sound from the other side of the door I follow through. Three soldiers are collapsed in piles in the corridor in various crumpled forms. We disarm one; the others have no weapons. My eyes are stinging from the gas but at least I can breathe. When Kenneth starts to cough I order him out the building to stand guard. I move us to the next room, which we find empty. As we exit the room Ailin's squad enters from the other end of the central corridor.

"We found him," he says, his voice muffled by the handkerchief covering the lower portion of his face, and within seconds I am in the holding cells looking at Ronan passed out on a steel cot. He was probably asleep when the attack started. His face is peaceful, unlike the officer and soldiers I saw. I think I say and shout "Get it open!" seven or eight times before one of our team, Sean I think, finds a set of keys that rattle against the metal door as he fumbles to unlock the cell door under pressure from me. I guess I could step back and give him space but I am impatient to reach Ronan. Finally the door is open and I burst in, breathless, kneeling next to the cot, futilely shaking Ronan. Someone is going to have to carry him.

Footsteps echoing in the sterile space behind me announce the arrival of more team members. "The soldiers?" I ask. Our strategy was successful, our tactics perfect. They are all asleep, knocked out by the gas we launched into the building. It is dissipating though, and we will need to hurry. I order my companions to drag the bodies into the cells and ensure they are all disarmed. Whilst they do so I use water to try wake Ronan but he is still asleep when Ailin calls for us to leave. Ailin directs four of the youngsters to carry Ronan whilst the rest of us provide guard.

We exit the building into the rain where Ciara and Kenneth are waiting. Ciara drops a paintbrush to the ground in front of a large bird, almost recognisable as the Mockingjay, definitely more crow than Mockingjay, next to a rough Celtic cross, both splashed onto the wall next to the front door. She looks defiantly at me, definitely not looking for my approval, but she gets it anyway. The Celtic cross is their own, it is a sign of Irishness, it is their past and their future. It will mean more to the people of this haunting land than my Mockingjay.

The forest is only metres away when I first hear it. Within seconds the others are spinning and peering up into the falling rain, blinking to keep their vision clear. "Into the forest! Go! Go! Go!" I scream, knowing full well what is coming. The high-pitched scream of a Panem hovercraft is unmistakeable and drowns out my own. Visions of me cowering with gale in the forbidden woods outside the fence, where we illegally hunted for food, of two young people trying to hide as they fled the Capitol forces. Another vision, of hovercraft dropping cages to pick up the bodies of the dead Tributes. Then the last, a hovercraft dropping tinkling parachutes that murdered children, and my sister. And always the engines, overwhelming not just my sense of hearing but my inner thoughts as well.

The squads break into the forest and are joined by Connor's reserve squads in a slippery dash through mud under the trees. Connor signals and we split into two groups. Our group turns toward the west, the other heads north. Despite the turn the hovercraft remains above us. It is tracking us. It knows exactly where we are! It is going to bomb us, just like they did in District 12 after the 75th Hunger Games! I am panicking, not thinking straight. I scold myself and force myself to think. They are tracking us. They could have bombed us already. Why didn't they? They want to capture us. Of course, they need a psychological weapon. Our revolution has spread already; killing us won't stop it. Using us as showpieces, however, will work very well. It will be a visible sign that no-one can fight the Union and win. We have to escape. But how?

An explosion to our right thumps some people off their feet. The roar deafens the engines of the hovercraft for the first time, for a few moments. Mud splatters across our group. Wood splinters strike our coats but not hard enough to penetrate, although there is a groan behind me. Perhaps someone took a hit in the face or neck. The leaders veer left, heading west again. People are pulling others back to their feet and dragging them at the same time, desperate to escape more bombs. We run, stumble for another fifty metres before another bomb bursts to our right, closer than the first. More people are down, many deliberately so this time. More than half the group are down, the rest are slipping in mud trying to remain upright. Kenneth has Ronan over his shoulder, gripping his arm and leg to keep him up. We turn away from the bomb blast again.

The enemy is definitely tracking us, and they are herding us too. The bombs were too far away from us for it to be coincidental. Can they see us through the trees? I know there was technology the Capitol sometimes used. Infra-red, I think. They may be able to see us under the trees, see our body heat. Connor turns us again, back to the west. It takes a few seconds for the pitch of the hovercraft engines to change as it bears west as well. If they could see us surely they would have turned faster. My mind is racing. This is the third prison rescue I have been part of. The first time we rescued Shar, the second time it was Aiden and the sisters. This is the third. Definitely not third time lucky! How are they tracking us? I move forward in our group to see if Ronan is waking up yet. As I look at him I forget to look forward and run into a long-hanging branch. My head connects hard with the branch, knocking me to the ground as a nauseating wave of pain sears down my body. It feels like the blow Johanna gave me when they were trying to rescue me from my second Games.

Then it hits me! Not the branch, but the realisation that Ronan has a tracker, possibly the same type of Games tracker that I had when Johanna cut it out of my arm. Someone is pulling me up but all I can do is shout "Stop!" as loud as I can. My assistants think I am screaming at them so they release me and I drop into the mud again, sliding on a slope as I try to regain my feet and still keep a grip on my rifle.

"Connor! Stop!"

He hears me and whirls around, surprised to see me down. He echoes my call to stop and our troop holds up. Some lose their footing, cursing as they join me in the mud.

"Ronan has a tracker!" I get out, as I make it to my feet. I skate more than run over to Ronan. "I need a knife," I say, swinging the strap of my rifle over my shoulder and shaking water from my face. I have Kenneth lower Ronan to the ground and I start to inspect his arms. Unlike the rest of us in our coats he has only a shirt on, making it simpler to search for the tracker. Despite it being day it is very dark under the trees due to the cloud cover, so the only way to find the tracker is by touch. I rub my fingers along his forearms, conscious that the others have formed a circle around me. The howl of the hovercraft is directly overhead but I focus on finding the tracker. Then I find it on l his left arm, a bump just under the surface. The Irishmen around me would never have known about technology like this. I reach up at nothing in particular and someone positions a knife firmly into my grip. I thank the God of the Irish that Ronan is still unconscious; this incision would inflict acute pain if he were awake.

"Sorry," I whisper to him, then ask the men closest to hold him down, just in case. With that, as the hovercraft loops in a tight circle above us, I cut into his arm, hurting with him but knowing that this pain is ultimately necessary. When I make the incision his body jerks due to the overwhelming pain and he wakes in an instant. The four men holding him struggle to keep Ronan still as I dig inside the cut to snag the tracker and pull it out. Somehow, despite the suddenness of this, the obvious confusion and ignorance of what is happening, Ronan doesn't shout or scream. He grunts, but that is all. Then the knife catches the tracker and I twist the knife to lever it out of his arm, the blood mixing with the rain and mud to form a slimy mess on his forearm.

I throw the inch-long tracker away from us and then we are all up. I hug Ronan and beg forgiveness, telling him I am sorry. He just hugs me with his right arm, his left dangling painfully. Connor has us moving again, this time with Ronan running, still supported, in the midst of our group. We switch north this time and I feel the relief physically and mentally as the hovercraft does not follow, instead remaining in the holding loop above the spot where I extracted the tracker.

"We need to split up," puffs Connor, running next to me now. He is right, we cannot risk everyone. What if Ronan has a second tracker? Connor calls to Ryan and Sean to lead their squads east, to meet up with the other two squads under Clare and Padraigh, and head to safe locations before making their way back to Carran. Then his squad and mine join up and, with Ronan making it nine people, we drive west toward the coast and a farm where the farmer is a sympathiser. I leave all the decision-making to Connor, all I care about now is Ronan, and keeping him safe.


	33. Chapter 33

Day 537 – Ciara

Ciara stands just inside the barn door, scanning the valley for threats. The rain stopped during the night although the sky remains overcast, with the wind howling its abuse at us from the south-west. She stands proud and brave, her thick black hair wafting in the gusting winds across her lean shoulders. I walk up next to her, more than a metre to her right. I don't stand close to her because her height intimidates me. She is four inches taller than me and that is unusual for a woman. Her sister is not quite as tall but still reaches six foot. But Niamh is slimmer, not as physically dominating. Most of the men in our group are shorter. I think her height has kept them from trying to form friendships with her. She is definitely defensive about her height, which is a pity since she is beautiful and graceful.

"How are you doing?" I ask, staring out across the valley with her.

"It's all quiet, no sign of life. Not even a sheep."

"That's not what I asked," I prompt.

"I know."

"You did well back there, during the rescue. I think we should make you a squad leader on the next raid."

She shrugs indifferently although I witness the briefest of smiles. Everyone needs positive reinforcement, telling them they are doing well. We complement our children often but rarely do so for our fellow adults. She and her sister lost their father when they were young, perhaps they didn't receive enough praise. Now she doesn't know how to receive it easily. She triggers a commitment within me to make sure my own children, if I ever see them again, receive mounds of praise from me.

"I don't think I'm ready yet. Let someone else be a squad leader," is Ciara's response. It catches me by surprise. Surely being a squad leader would help her with confidence and respect amongst the others. Is she scared of the responsibility?

"It isn't that hard..."

Then anyone can be a squad leader."

"No, no. It wouldn't be hard for you, someone like you."

"Because I am harder than the others?"

Everything I say is being twisted by her. She keeps catching my words and making them sound negative. Despite being in her early twenties she is astute, and clever. Which is of course the primary reason for my suggestion. I need to respond quickly, before she gets any bad ideas about us, me. The last thing I want is to create a rift between us. "You are smarter than many of the others; you know that as well as I do. The others look to a few of you as leaders. Ronan, you, Sean, although Sean needs to temper his aggression, Ailin. When Connor and I are no longer around…" I stop, not like the previous time when she interrupted me but rather because of her reaction to my words. Fear flashed across her eyes briefly. I can sense immediately that I have struck a nerve.

What is it that could have affected her so? I think back on my words and wonder. I spoke about intelligence, about leaders, about Connor and me. Then it dawns on me. So my thoughts earlier about her affection for Connor must be correct. She insisted on being in his squad. She didn't want to be a squad leader because it would take her from Connor. My words about Connor and me must have also scared her. She must think Connor and I have plans together. No wonder she hasn't been that friendly to me over the past few months. She is jealous. Not that there is a reason for her to be. Although she cannot know that.

"There isn't anything between Connor and me," I say after a lengthy silence.

"Why should I care if there is," she snaps, turning to face me for the first time. Her bright green eyes shine out in a permanent challenge.

"He is older than you are. Nearly thirty years. I have a husband, it is not my place to say he is not available, but you have a long life ahead of you."

"He only has eyes for you. He ignores the rest of the women. I have seen it. Not that I am interested," she says, far too quickly for me to believe her. She has feelings for him, I can see, but what type of feelings? I have seen young women infatuated with men. It isn't a true love. It is like the kitten that lost its mother running after a human, first for food and later, after enough meals, after a new mother or father.

"You should find another man, there are many good ones in the village," I add, softly, gently, trying not to be condescending.

For a while only the wind provides relief from the silence. We stare out from the barn, watching clouds fly from one horizon to the other, racing each other to wherever the wind is driving them. The desolate valley provides nothing of interest to help restart our conversation, so we stand quietly for a while. Several times I start to say something but the words seem pointless. First was "I can take over the watch for you", followed by "Ronan is recovering well", then "I think the Union lost us in the forest." I give up trying to find a conversation and listen to the wind whistling through the barn.

"The hovercraft are kept at the airfield in Charleville."

"What do you mean?" I say, suddenly wary of her but also piqued by her words.

"The aircraft from your country, they are based at Charleville, at the airfield south of the town."

"How do you know?"

"We saw them when we raided south toward Mallow." When they raided? I remember now. There was a raid when I was still on crutches. Connor and Ronan took a group of ten south to the main island to destroy a tower and a bridge on the main road from New Dublin to the south-west.

"Who saw it?"

"All of us," she responds, not giving names but knowing I will work it out. We are looking straight at each other now. I don't know whether to say thank you to her for telling me or hate her for her motivation. She certainly didn't tell me for my own benefit. More than that though, my thoughts flow to the others, especially Connor and Ronan. Ciara has used the crass manipulation of youth to get her own way. Her smugness confirms that. But she is not important in my life. People come and go in life. Some stay longer than others. She won't stay in mine much longer. Which, I guess, is exactly what she wants. Me gone so that she can go after Connor. Well, I will give her her wish, because suddenly I believe again that I can get home. Images of Peeta and the children cycle before me as I turn away from Ciara and head up the hill to the white thatched cottage where the two men I thought cared for me sit, hiding a secret.

Behind me I am sure Ciara is laughing, although it may be the wind. Perhaps both.

Day 539 – Charleville

The way I confronted Connor and Ronan was unfair. I blasted into the farmhouse where Brady and Saoirse were off-rotation, sleeping after six hours of guard duty. I was angry, no, furious. That they knew of the base and didn't tell me, that they hid the information from me, knowing that it meant so much, seemed unforgiveable. I shouted at them like I don't think I have ever shouted before at a person. I called them traitors, selfish and uncaring. I didn't even tell them why. Waking the pair of sleepers was thoughtless too. I immediately felt guilty and locked myself in a bedroom, ignoring the knocks, pleading calls to open the door and mollifying words spoken quietly through the door. Eventually they left me, as night was falling and the others persuaded them to leave me be.

The next two hours I spent deep in thought, first about their betrayal, then about their motives, then about how I should respond. They all definitely knew how important it was to me, especially the two people I considered family. They watched me try to get home, they watched me fight the Union. I admit it now, Thomas was correct; I was looking for revenge, not just freedom for Ireland. That did change once I believed there was no hope of making it back to Panem, especially after we shot down the hovercraft at Millstreet. So far as their motivations, I could only think they needed me for the rebellion. Every rebellion needs a rallying point, or person. That one person that everyone has a connection to, a leader. What they don't understand is that I cannot be that for Ireland. It has to be someone Irish. Just as Ronan has become the leader of our young rebels. I thought of the date; the fourth of June. They start the Hunger Games in the middle of June. And then I knew what I had to do.

The murmuring sounds of people eating leaked through the gaps around the door, alerting me that they would not hear my activity. I gathered my clothing and weapons, all that I had with me, and I prised open the window of the room. The farmhouse stood on rocks halfway up the valley. Although the entrance was level with the ground, the rear of the building rose high above the sloping hillside. Being careful not to fall and injure myself, I dropped to the earth three metres below, narrowly missing the rocks of the foundation. Then I was away, into the darkness, heading north from Coolkellure, not sure of my route but knowing I needed a head start if I wanted to escape my companions.

My options of route to reach Charleville: use the Mallow Ferry or go through Millstreet. Using any ferry is risky for me as there are posters of me all over, lined up in a row with Ronan and Connor. The others are not known by the Union yet ,which is why Ailin led the Mallow attack where Ciara saw the hovercraft. The second choice, via Millstreet, is high risk because of our previous activity. But I know the terrain and roads, and I can bypass the town. The ferry would be quicker but I decided to trust my instinct and my skills, and stick to the land.

The first night I covered nearly fifty kilometres, travelling mostly by road, except when I approached Millstream. Then I detoured across some farms before rejoining the road heading north-east. Around two hours after I left the moon felt sorry for me and lifted itself above the horizon into the strangely clear night sky to light my way with its pale light. I had been struggling to see further that a few metres until the moon rose. After that I made better time, taking to running for ten minutes and then walking for ten. In the early morning an hour before sunrise, exhausted and sore from the running, I found an abandoned roofless farmhouse a short way off the road. The chimney was still standing so I doffed my coat and wriggled into the fireplace before covering myself with the coat. Anyone who happened into the ruins would see me, I had no doubt. The coat was more for protection from rain than for camouflage.

Stiff and sore from trying to sleep in an awkward position in a cramped space, as well as knowing that there was no one standing guard, I welcomed the opportunity to resume my journey the second night. That night there was no help from the moon. It had started raining again and I trudged along the roads, battered by rain and wind, wondering why I decided to do this. The hardest part was being alone after so long spent with Connor, Ronan, Shar and the others. I thought I was used to being alone; I had hunted a good deal on my own, especially after the rebellion when Gale was no longer my hunting partner. Now, as I struggled against the elements I realised how I had come to need companionship, need the people I had gathered around me. I didn't like being alone, but I knew it was the right path to follow. I wouldn't risk their lives on this errand.

By morning I was still short of Charleville but decided to risk travel in daylight. The daylight is what I needed to achieve my objective. Over the last two nights I worked out how to find what I wanted. I needed to choose a hovercraft that could take me back to Panem. My plan is to sneak aboard, take the pilots hostage and force them to fly to Panem. Although I know the District 13 base from my time there after my second Hunger Games, I doubt it would be sensible to fly there. The pilots could alert the base and they would capture me when we landed, taking me to Coin, for more torture and imprisonment. No, I won't let that happen.

My decision to continue my hike turned out to be a good one. As dawn brightened to full morning a helicopter clattered overhead, flying east to west, climbing into the morning sky. I was off-track, heading too far north, straight toward Charleville. Bearing south-east brought me straight into the airbase and a vantage point in the treeline next to the fence. The airbase is an open area, cleared of all plants except grass. A concrete area, much smaller than the area at Cork Airport, spreads around two central buildings, one twice the size of the other. Now to watch and find the hovercraft I needed. Despite my best intentions two nights of no sleep won the day. It was later afternoon when I woke. What woke was hunger. I realised in my haste to reach Charleville I missed eating. The last meal I had was lunch the day Ciara told me about the airbase. In hindsight I should have planned this journey more, but my emotion skewed my judgement.

Now here I sit, as the sun starts it final immersion into the horizon, quickly trying to spot any appropriate hovercraft whilst my stomach grumbles its hollow discontent. There are four helicopters and two hovercraft on the field. By their insignia both hovercraft are District 13 military, their full array of rockets and guns sticking out like quills on a porcupine. It is too late, however, to plan how to reach the hovercraft undetected. I am disappointed but also relieved as I can look for food and sleep tonight without worrying that I will miss a flight.

The last hour of daylight I spend creating a bivouac under a fallen tree and foraging for plants that I can eat without cooking as I cannot risk a fire. Besides, I don't even have a knife to prepare any small animal I might catch. I find two clumps of berry bushes and a forest stream with remarkably clear potable water that I use to drink and wash myself. I would hate the hovercraft crew to find me because of my odour. Luckily it is summer and warm enough for me to rinse my clothing too. Then I make a futile check of the base before moving into my shelter to sleep for the first time in three nights, wrapped in my overcoat, sickeningly full of berries, rifle and bow close to hand.


	34. Chapter 34

Day 540 – Slán go foill Éire

By midday I am bored and frustrated to the point of considering a raid on the airbase unaided. The helicopters and hovercraft remain grounded, hunched on the concrete surface like birds of prey over a kill. Each is surrounded by equipment, vehicles and people who scurry around, over and under the aircraft. Perhaps I can find food in the boxes, or on board. I know that someone will be coming after me, probably Ronan and Connor, so time is not something I have to spare. They can't be more than a day behind. Sure, the second night was difficult because of the weather, but they would be in better shape than me and would be able to cover a greater distance. They will arrive tonight, unless they are already here, looking for me.

The thing is, I don't want them here. The second night of my journey was lonely but last night, after I found food and water, and managed to wash my clothes, body and hair, I felt better. Now I want to be alone. I don't want them to take on any threats. Besides which, they could also reduce my chances of sneaking aboard a hovercraft. This is my mission and I have to do it alone. Once I have rescued my family, killed Coin, and freed Panem, again, I can come back and help them. I don't see it as abandonment, merely leaving to bring help later.

Only now, when I have a real chance of flying home, have I started to think of what is happening in Panem. I think I subconsciously buried the words of Coin when last we met, that he was relaunching the Hunger Games. It was so fanciful, so remote, that it was hard to believe anyone could think of such a demonic act. More than that though, I felt guilty that I was powerless to help, and thinking of the possibility was too disturbing, so I hid it away, pretending to be happy fighting the Union and then living in Carran. Now that I am close to finding a ride home all the worry and tension is resurfacing. Now I need to do something to stop Coin. First though, I need to find my family, and find out what is going on. I also don't know who I can trust. Many people are spies and agents for Coin, just like Manda Wakeford. Who would have thought that someone could spend two decades in our District yet remain deeply loyal to 13?

It is mid-morning and clear but the forest is humid after the rain and storms. The air is stagnant; whatever breeze there is diffuses when reaching the trees. I decide to risk finding food and water as I doubt anything will happen at the base whilst I am away. I return to the stream and the berry bushes but I cannot face a full meal of the sugary black berries so when I find some rabbit spoor I fashion a rudimentary noose trap from branches and green bark. I sprinkle berries around the trap, hoping the fragrance will lure the rabbits into the area. Then I set out to find all the dry wood and twigs I can. Although my instinct is to return to my vigil at the base I doubt the trap could hold a thrashing rabbit for too long.

Two hours later I have a rabbit roasting over a small fire that I continually feed with small bits of wood, keeping the fire small but heat high. The initial burning fur launched a cloud of bitter smoke but after that the smell of cooking meat had my stomach twisting and turning as saliva swirled in anticipation of a solid meal. I struggled without a knife until I remembered that I had arrows with me. The additional wait for the rabbit to cook is like torture, but when the meat is ready I delicately bite into it with restraint, conscious that I probably look like Rue, controlling my actions but inside bursting to just rip the flesh and wolf it down in minutes.

When I am sated I cover the remains of the bones and fire with dirt and foliage, before moving to the stream to wash. I look down at my reflection in the still water and grasp the magnitude of that rabbit. It could also be my last meal in Ireland. In two days I could be looking for food in District 13 as I hide from soldiers patrolling the corridors. I know so many hiding places in that over-sized hole in the ground, I bet I could stay hidden for weeks. I wonder if they control the food like they used to. That could be tricky for me, scavenging for food when they weigh and dole out every gram according to a computer roster.

I head back to my vantage point in the treeline by the base to review the security around the base. Earlier I saw a weakness in the fence, a dip in the ground where water runoff occurs. From where I am it looks like the builders were too lazy to fill in the gully or run the fence deeper. I think I can bend the fence and slip under. I also know, from my years back in 12, that the fence is not electrified. There are no signs and there is no tell-tale buzzing. It is also a chain-link fence and from what I remember from my father, chain-link fences are not good for carrying electricity. So it should be simple to enter the base. There are also no guard towers like we saw in District 11, the year of our Victory Tour. The fence line also does not have a patrol path along the inside. If the soldiers patrolled there would be a worn path showing their route. The last measure I look for but do not find is camera surveillance. Despite our raids around the country the security at this base is low. I guess the Union doesn't believe we would be foolish enough to attack a base this size. I say thank you to the Irish for their years of passive acceptance on Union rule.

Although it didn't register for a while I suddenly realise I can hear the approach of another aircraft from the south-west, definitely a hovercraft. I edge backward under the bushes and watch as a new hovercraft cruises over the forest and descends to the airbase, rotating through a quarter turn to align with the other two as it touches down. This one is different though. It has few weapons and is larger. Is it a transport? That is what the others were waiting for – supplies. They were waiting for this one. It must have flown in from Panem. Bringing supplies, support, new personnel maybe. It is even larger than the hovercraft that brought me here. And if it came here from Panem it must go back as well!

My brain goes hyperactive, thinking of new ways to reach home. My original plan was dangerous and now that I see the transport I realise the other two would have a shorter range. I can capture the pilots on the transport, make them fly to District 12. Then I remember my flight here and the number of crew on board. Taking the pilots hostage would be suicide, doomed to failure. No, better to sneak aboard and find a place to hide. That would probably take me to District 13 though, to Otwa, which I want to avoid. I watch as people come out from the buildings and greet those that are disembarking, all dressed in their grey uniforms that turn my blood cold. They represent 13, and Coin, and I feel hate bubbling inside me. Calm down, Katniss, calm down. The time for revenge will come.

I gather my thoughts, then head into the forest to my bivouac where I gather my coat, bow and quiver. The next five hours I sit and watch, going over my route over and over, checking the movement of the guards, the positions of any cover between the fence and the transport. Whilst I do this the crew, unaware of my presence, off-load their cargo, hauling boxes and machinery out the rear door of the aircraft. Then they haul a number of crates into the hovercraft, winching them up the ramp one at a time. When they are finished they head into the main rectangular building next to the concrete apron, much to my relief. If they had left straight after off-loading my plan would have failed. As it is I can now sneak aboard.

Night is short during the summer months and I have to wait until an hour before midnight before I dare to make my move. I slip down the hill to the fence where I use the rifle to first dig a hole and then prop up the fence to form a small gap. I wriggle through and then pull the rifle away. The rifle I slide under a small bush nearby, feeling guilty that the rebels have lost a good weapon but knowing that there is no use taking it with me. A gunshot will expose me, whether aboard or on the ground. I can use the bow for a quiet kill or just an arrow at close quarters, like a knife. Careful to watch in all directions, arrow and bow in hand, I crawl slowly toward the closest cover there is, a cluster of drums. I stop at the drums and realise that I am relaxed, my breathing is normal, my heart-rate is strangely low. I would have thought at such a crucial stage I would be excited, nervous, but the opposite is true.

From the drums I run hunched over to the next concealment, a truck with a round oblong body. Here I crouch and wait for a few minutes, checking for patrols. Then I am up and running, stooped over again to keep myself as small as possible without sacrificing speed. I make it to two large boxes. They are higher than I am tall and wider than the span of my arms. They must carry assembled equipment. What is Coin doing here in Ireland? Is all this to help find me? Stop the rebellion? Or is he doing something grander than that? He is power-hungry, if he has control of Panem is that enough?

I hear boots coming toward me and a flush of adrenaline bursts through me. I am standing next to a huge box, there is nowhere to hide! This was always a risk, getting caught in the open. The footfalls are closer now and I try to work out which direction they are coming from. Behind the boxes, approaching to the right. I edge left and slip around the corner of a box, keeping as close to it as I can. Luckily the buildings are on the far side. The guard is right next to the boxes on the other side. I move again, trying to time my movements so that the boxes remain between me and the guard. As I shift again my bow taps the box behind me and the footsteps stop. The tap was the lightest of taps. In the day no-one would have heard it but in the cool quiet night it is a drumbeat.

Don't panic, I tell myself, knowing that panic is the most dangerous of enemies. Stay calm, think, move, but slowly. I round the next corner of the box so that I am now on the far side from where I started. The airbase buildings are now in full view, so I am in full view to them too. Please, let no-one be watching. The footsteps start again, this time coming around the boxes toward me. To reach the next corner I have two box lengths to traverse. Can I make it before the guard reaches the corner I am at? I decide to stop. I reverse the arrow in my left hand so that I am holding it like a dagger, sharp point down. As he steps around the corner I will strike for his throat. How tall is he? Should I use my bow, stepping around the corner and shooting him before he is too close? The footsteps stop. I try not to breathe, standing as quietly as I can, waiting for the moment to strike. The footsteps start again, moving away from my position. I want to sigh with relief but I restrain myself, conscious that my previous error almost gave me away.

I wait a full count of fifty before daring to peep around the corner of the box. The dark shape of the guard is moving past the drums I first hid behind, toward the fence. Will he see where I slipped under it? So many things could go wrong right now. Despite the time I spent watching and planning one unexpected action could foil my mission. I turn and walk slowly across to the transport, my eyes fixed on the windows and doors of the building to my right. At the transport I walk up the still-open loading ramp, and I am in. I almost cannot believe it. I look at the markings and equipment, see the familiar technology of Panem, and emotion swells within me, constricting my neck, drying my mouth, tearing my eyes. Can it be true? Is it possible I can make it home? I need to sit, I am overwhelmed, but I also need to hide, and I force myself to move further into the hovercraft. I am going home!

"Who's there?" The gruff Irish voice echoes ominously through the storage area, seeping into the spaces, seeking me out. I duck into an open locker alcove near the forward door, twisting to face the door, and ease it shut. The latch clicks as it shuts, loud enough to confirm my presence to the guard. I still have the arrow in my hand. Can I attack the guard when he opens the door? What if he calls for help? There is no way out for me! For the first time since I left my team I wonder why I did so. Alone, trapped inside the hovercraft, facing an unknown enemy, I am in trouble. My throat constricts, I couldn't breathe if I wanted to. My hand grips the arrow so tightly the fingers go pure white.

"Come out!" I can hear him edging slowly forward, further into the hovercraft. How will I get out of this? I picture the area outside the locker and the door that must lead into the cabin but know it is too far for me to reach without the guard seeing me. I have no doubt he has a weapon. Whether it is an energy weapon or a rifle doesn't matter, it could be fatal. Do I jump out at him? No chance of using the bow strapped to my back. The lights in the stowage come on suddenly, shining through the slits in the locker door. A few footsteps and I see the shadow of the man break the thin horizontal strips of light. The footsteps stop, ominously in front of my locker. A pause, and the latch starts to twist clockwise. My hand tightens even more on the arrow, ready to thrust at whoever opens the door. Then the latch jerks back and a snap sounds for outside. The shadow disappears, accompanied by a thud as something, a body, hits the ground.

"Katniss?" the whisper is so unexpected, so out of place here in a Panem hovercraft. I stand, unbreathing, contemplating my next move. I really don't know what to do. For a moment I thought it was another guard, a ruse to draw me out. But I know the voice. How did he get here? "Katniss, come out, we need to get out of here," says Connor.

I step out of my hiding place to see Connor kneeling next to the body, stripping the short-barrelled machine gun from the corpse's hands. The grey uniform is District 13. The young face shows surprise, shows that the guard didn't expect Connor's presence. He will never see his home again. Does he even know why he protects the Union from his own people? I doubt it. Suddenly my ire, previously directed at all the men and women in grey uniforms and the footsoldiers of the Union evaporates and I know it is Coin that needs to be the focal point of my efforts from now on. After he is gone I can help Connor fight the Union. But not yet. "We need to hide the body. If they find him they find me. It would have been easier if you didn't kill him," I say accusingly.

"It would have been much easier if I let him capture you," Connor almost spits his retort. "Look forward, I'll look toward the rear," he adds, and turns away toward the entrance.

Without a word to Connor I search around for a place to hide the body without success before moving to the cabin door to push it open. On the wall is a switch, which I flick to switch off the lights in the cargo area. In the cabin the lights are low, only feint orange guide lights reveal the interior. The cabin is utilitarian, lacking any of the ostentatious fittings that dominated the Senate hovercraft, the last aircraft I was on, if I exclude the helicopter that took me to the Rock. I walk through the cabin checking all the door and cupboards before finding a large room full of emergency equipment. In the room there are large cupboards with fire-fighting equipment and spare parts. There is space to hide the body as well as space for me to stow away. Back in the cargo hold I help Connor lug the body through to the room I found where we stuff the body into a cupboard.

"Ok, let's get out of here, before someone else comes along," says Connor walking to the door. I stay though, dreading the conversation I know we will have now. When I don't follow him Connor stops. Without turning around he says, "Katniss, this is a fool's errand. They'll find you. Come with me, we can find another way."

"This is the only way for me, Connor. There won't be another chance after this."

Connor turns, starts to say something but no words come out. Three times he starts but each time he stops, trying to find the right words but each time knowing I will have an answer. He knows me, this mysterious man who has fought by my side, rescued me, escaped with me, grown closer to me that any other here. His eyes plead with me, wanting me to stay, wanting me. But I can see in his eyes that he already knows I am leaving. We stare at each other, both trying to understand what the other is thinking, he more successful than me. I thought he would argue more. He knows me even more than I realised.

"Alright, then we had better work out how to hide."  
That surprises me. I never expected that he would want to come with. There is nothing more important to Connor than Ireland; his love of Ireland defines him. His life quest is for the freedom of Ireland. I have seen his strength after his days of torture at the Rock, I have seen his skill in our raids, I have seen his passion when he talks of an Ireland without the Union. Now he wants to give it all up? To find help for Ireland maybe, or is it to protect me?

"I don't need protection Connor. Ireland, your people, they need you. You need to stay here, lead the fight. I will come back with help. Nothing you can do will help back in Panem. It is a foreign world."

"Ireland was foreign to you…"

"That was different, I wasn't trying to get help," I respond.

"But you need it, more than you know."

I lapse into silence, devoid of an answer, because I am not sure how to react, or how I feel. Am I that helpless? How can I be? I fought as well as any man. Better, in fact. And when I reach Panem my knowledge of the land will be superior. I have friends too. Well, I did have. I let those friendships rot, like cabbages left out in the heat of summer. This is an argument I am not going to win, so I shrug, "OK, if you want to come with then find somewhere to hide. I can't stop you."


	35. Chapter 35

Day 542 - Capture

The thump and clatter of the crates being off-loaded finally ceases but I dare not move. I do not know if any of the crew is still on board and moving prematurely could risk capture, which in the District 13 base would be a disaster. After nearly two days confined to this storage room I can wait another hour. Connor emerges from his corner, walking slowly and softly over to me. We have barely spoken, except to share some food, some of which we scavenged from the galley and some that Connor carried in his pack. We ran out of water half a day ago though and my lips are parched. Flying seems to dry one out; perhaps it is the conditioned air, processed and recycled, and cold. We whisper our thoughts and agree to wait an hour. I sit down and wait, my mind finally numb. All through the flight my mind was racing, thinking of how we would escape 13. Steal a hovercraft - I can't fly. Steal a truck - too slow and visible. Walk to 12 - too long. I was no closer to a solution when we landed. Even now, all I can think is get out this flying trap and hide in the base. From there we reconnoitre and work out a plan from there.

An hour later we start moving toward the rear ramp. I stop deep inside the hold to stare out into the dark hangar. Hunching down, I scan the shadows. Seeing the hangar again, years after I was last in here, boarding a hovercraft to take me to a battle in District 2, where we buried thousands in the Nut, brings back memories, more bad than good. The last time I held my sister, the end of whatever shred of innocence remained within me. Am I scanning the shadows from fear of what is there, or fear of what was there?

Where was the exit? I force the memories out. Over at the far wall, there are two entrances. But better yet, a small access corridor to the left, which leads to a series of service tunnels. Pipes of water, heating, electricity, all running to the various areas and rooms in the base. From there access ports lead to corridors, upper levels, and somewhere a door. Great for hiding when enemies are chasing you. Except back then my enemies were my internal demons and I couldn't escape them. I tell Connor about the door and convince him to stay in the hold until I find it. I edge down the ramp, widening my view with every step. A quick few steps takes me to a rack of machine parts five metres from the base of the ramp.

A small hand signal tells Connor to wait whilst I locate the door. Then I will come back and lead him out of the hangar. I slip past rows of military equipment. Two years ago I questioned why Coin still needed a strong military, now I know why. The weapons don't surprise me. All I need to do is work out how to destroy it later. Sneak back in and lay charges. But first, my family.

I am a third of the way to the wall when the hangar lights blaze into being. A thousand globes light the entire area, leaving nowhere to hide. Do I run? Where to? I duck into a space between some boxes, hoping I wasn't seen. Who is watching? And why did the lights come on now? Of all times, now? And my body turns cold. And I know that they know I am here. I crunch down, making myself as small as possible, squeezing myself into a tiny space that is too small to fit into. How do they know? Connor! I hope he stays hidden, that he doesn't come out to join me.

"Miss Everdeen, welcome back to Otwa base. Come out, please. We know you are there," a woman's voice over the PA system, strangely comforting, calls for me to surrender. I may as well have a torch shining in my eyes, like a deer in the light of a flashlight. Like those deer I cannot move either, hypnotised by the sudden overload of senses. "Miss Everdeen, you need to come out now. We aren't here to hurt you." I look over at the hovercraft but equipment locks my view. Is Connor inside? I know what they will do to us. Prison, or worse. It is the way of dictators, they don't like loose ends. Any treat to their status must be hidden, destroyed, killed, whichever is simpler. "We have soldiers around your position, Miss Everdeen, you need to come out now," says the woman, less friendly now, a touch impatient.

I make my decision. If I wait they may start searching. They may find Connor. A a distraction will give Connor a chance to escape capture. If only I had brought my rifle, not just my bow. Extricating myself backwards from my nook is harder than squeezing in, but I manage it quietly. I nock an arrow and then I am running toward the far wall, away from the service door, keeping low, no longer checking each row before I cross it. I make a turn to the right and then left again. I cover fifty metres before a voice shouts "There!" I am upright now and sprinting for the wall, suddenly hoping I can make it to one of the entrances. Once in the base proper I have a chance. Footsteps strike all around me. I check behind me to see two soldiers running after me. I break right, then left and left, zigzagging. Back to the right, heading to the wall again. Six rows to go. Five. Four. A body slams into me, knocking me to the left and onto the concrete floor. The impact sends us sliding and my head smacks into a crate, sending a bolt of pain through my neck. My vision blurs, spots flashing all around me as my senses short-circuit. Amidst my agony, someone rolls me onto my stomach and yanks my arms behind my back. A knee jams into my lower spine and a rough, giant hand forces my face into the cold concrete, twisting my head so that my right cheek is grinding into the floor.

They have me. I stop moving completely and close my eyes, trying to shut out the pain and disappointment. I was so close. I could almost smell the fresh pines of Panem, standing proud in the mountains of my homeland. I remember moving through the forests above 13, hunting with Gale, free for the first time in days, avoiding a complete mental shutdown. A stag stood proud too, unaware of the threat to his life. I didn't shoot him that day. Obviously the people here have no such qualms about defenceless creatures. Well, maybe I am not that defenceless.

Soldiers bind me at the wrists and elbows, tightening the nooses more that needed, stretching my shoulders back and my elbows outside their normal range of motion. Then they lift me like a twig and I am on my feet, watching soldiers crowded into the narrow corridors, weapons pointing in my direction. How dangerous can one woman be? To my left, towering over me, is a hulk of a man, dressed in his grey uniform, pleased with himself for capturing me. His oversized ears and nose, his broad grin, his shovel-sized hands, make me think of storybooks we read at school, about giants. Well, even giants can fall. I swing my right foot as I twist toward him and connect high between his legs. I get the satisfaction of seeing his grin replaced by pain before someone clubs the back of my head. As I drop to the concrete again I can only wonder whether Connor escaped or not.


	36. Chapter 36

Day 543 – The Base

I cannot decide which is worse, prison or exile. A prison confines to a small area, your freedoms totally removed. Walls and fences surround you, penning you in like a horse in a corral. You yearn to run free, wherever you choose. In exile you get to run free across the land, choosing to go wherever your head takes you. Except it isn't your own land, it is someone else's. And you cannot get back to where you want to be. The freedom to move is a constant reminder of what you cannot have, just like the walls of a prison. And here I am, staring at a wall again. This is the third time I have been in prison. The first was a short stay, the second a long one. I get the feeling this time will be like the second. This time Coin won't let me go.

They have me shackled again, chained so that I cannot move. It gives me great pleasure, knowing that Coin is visiting again, and he is afraid. Small victory though it is, I must take what I can, to keep my hope and sanity. I don't struggle at all, I sit quietly, staring at the wall, tracing patterns along the concrete joins. I find patterns in the varying tone of the surface. I see a horse, then handcuffs. Maybe this isn't such a good pastime after all. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, slowly, filling my lungs fully before exhaling with my lips pursed.

The door clanks open and the three legs of Coin step in; footfall, footfall, stickfall, footfall, footfall, stickfall. Déjà vu. I expect him to stand behind me for a while but he moves instead rapidly past me and takes a seat on the other side of the table without saying a word. Those piercing eyes focus on me, unblinking, trying to burn a hole through me, I am sure.

"Welcome home, Katniss," he almost whispers the first words.

"Funny, you are the second person to say that to me since I arrived. The first didn't turn out so well," I reply.

"I am sorry for the… treatment… you received. I have told the commanders not to be so harsh next time," he says, his face blank, unreadable.

"So there will be a next time?" I ask.

"Not for you, unfortunately. Breaking into a military base is a criminal offence. Not to mention killing a guard."  
I nod. So that is how they knew. It felt wrong as soon as it happened. "He wasn't one of yours."

"Our friends at the Union reported his disappearance to my people at the airbase. It had to be you; I knew it as soon as they told me a guard was missing. My commanders wouldn't believe me, that you would bring a body all the way here. And that you would fly into my own headquarters. I get to say 'I told you so' at the next council meeting. Thanks for not letting me down. It was actually quite devious, keeping the body on the hovercraft. We found the corpse. It will be shipped back to the boy's loved ones. You robbed a family of a son. They are devastated, you know."

I doubt he knows anything about the family of the guard back in Ireland so I ignore the comment. I also don't tell him Connor killed the guard, not me. Then I realise Connor broke his commitment to not harm Irishmen. He did it for me. Perhaps I was wrong thinking he just wanted me for the rebellion. It has to be more personal than that. He is hiding somewhere in this base, Coin would have told me if they had found both Connor and the corpse. There is hope then that Connor is free, whether outside or still trapped in the base. He is resourceful and astute, I know he will survive.

Coin stops talking. He is looking at me strangely. I missed what he was saying. "What is going on in that brain of yours, Katniss?" I suddenly worry that, through my silence, I gave him a clue that someone was with me. I couldn't bear to be the one who exposes Connor, putting him in even more danger. My mind is frantic, but a thought springs from the chaos.

"Do you remember when I last saw you? Back at the Rock?" He nods his head, puzzled by the change in conversation. "Well, I promised the next time we met it would be me visiting you, here in Panem."

"And you certainly kept that promise, didn't you? This time…"  
"This time I am going to make you another promise, and I aim to keep it, like the last. I am going to kill you, just as I killed your mother, for the greater good of Panem. It won't be today, maybe not this month, but I will kill you. I promise."

The madman in front of me smirks before bursting out with laughter. "Katniss, thank you for entertaining me. I admire the sentiment and commitment. This time, as I was saying before you interrupted me, things will be different for you. You aren't going anywhere; you aren't leaving your cell. I am keeping a personal watch over you now. I have more chance of seeing my mother again than you have of getting out of my prison. And if you are in my prison, how are you going to kill me?"

Relief sweeps over. I was worried he was going to kill me or send me back over the ocean. Either of those would put paid to my threat. Especially the first one. Now that he intends keeping me here I know there is a chance, a chance Connor can rescue me, a chance I can fulfil my promise.

"I need to go. It was so nice of you to come all this way just to see me. Only me, as it turns out. I bet you thought you would see your family. Don't worry, you will see them. What a coincidence you are here. I could not have timed it better myself. In two days we start the second new Hunger Games. We couldn't keep the old numbering. Seemed inappropriate, as if we were continuing the old legacy of the Capitol. Our new Hunger Games are different as well. We don't reap peasants. Nowadays we reap from the Councillors of each District."

The Councillors? That would mean Peeta… He didn't say Senator, he definitely said Councillor.

"Your new cell is quite plain. This base remains a working military facility so we have to keep luxuries out. There is, however, one piece of furniture you will receive. It is a television." The cruel smile dominates his visage; his whole body seems coiled like a snake about to strike.

Coin is up on his feet. He always does this, stands when he is driving for power and dominance. "So we take a Councillor from each District and put them in the arena. Each Councillor must take one of their children with them. We fired all the Councillors without offspring, so that all Councillors are eligible for selection. What's the reward? A seat in the Senate, of course. Whoever can protect their child is promoted to the Senate. Can't protect your child? How can you protect Panem? Genius, isn't it? The peasants support it. The support has endorsed our decision to restart the Games. It has been far more successful than I hoped."

He waves to someone behind me. He did this before, had a guard stand behind me. All he did was wave, which is supposed to mean something. To the unobservant it would look like everyone understood his needs. To me it looks like he prepped the guard to boost his own image. A guard comes into view with a vid player, which she sets up on the table. She activates it and turns back to her post. As she does so she avoids my gaze but she is familiar. I have definitely seen her face before. Coin starts talking, breaking my train of thought.

"So I have a vid here for you. Two actually. You must have been devastated to miss the Games last year. The first is a four-hour summary of the first New Hunger Games. Very moving, especially the parents who lose their children. They just give up with despair, knowing professional hunters we have inserted into the game will join the other tributes to kill them. No point leaving outcomes to chance is there? The winner is a very good Senator, his performance since the Games vindicates the selection process." He lets the news sink in.

"The second vid is the reaping for the second New Hunger Games. That is going to especially interesting for you. You might just get to see your family. And don't worry, the television will be on permanently so that you can watch the entire event this year."

With that he switches on the player and as a blast of trumpets sounds out he heads for the exit, leaving me in a hole of depression and disbelief. "You said you weren't after my family."

The tapping of the stick stops. "Katniss, I said 'not yet', that was last year. Yes, I did say 'not yet', I am certain. Year One is gone, it is already Year two. But don't make assumptions, just watch. It is terribly exciting." Then he is gone, his tapping fading as he walks along the corridor, and any hope for my family's safety goes with him.

Two hours later, as I watch adults and children dying, killing each other and being slaughtered by masked hunters in black uniforms, sick to my stomach, I ask if I can visit the ablutions. The female guard convinces her male companion and they lead me to the facility where I vomit from disgust and fear. Despite my efforts my eyes could not stay closed for two hours. The psychopathic editors emphasized each kill. Each fatal shot or cut, thrust or punch, each grimace and cry of a victim dying, were shown close-up or in slow-motion. I cried for the first five or six but after that the blood pageant nauseated me. I wonder how the other surviving Victors felt. Peeta, Haymitch, Annie, Johanna, Beetee. Are they as sickened as I am? Are the old traumas coming out? Enobaria? She is the Games Master, she will be loving it.

A tap on the door breaks my reverie. "Katniss, we need to get you back." The guard, her voice soft and compassionate, lures me out of the cubicle. As the door swings open I see her face properly for the first time. Dark hair, grey eyes. Soulful, sad eyes. Familiar. She has the Seam look. Perhaps that is the familiarity, that she looks a little like me. As she ushers me to the wash basins I keep twisting to see her face. She reminds me of life before the Reaping. What would life be like for me today if they had not reaped Prim that day, if I had not volunteered? The irony of that decision doesn't escape me, that I was trying to save my sister and lost her anyway. I have it! This guard is from District 12. Older, of course, but definitely from 12. She was at school with Prim. I remember her standing in choir, next to Prim, a single pony tail, unbraided, thin white cotton dress making her cold and her skin slightly blue. I remember thinking it could be me at the same age as Prim. Twins. No, may be sisters or at the least cousins. Like everyone thought Gale and I were cousins. What is her name?

"Fran? Faye? Frieda?…"

"Stop! Don't say it," she whispers urgently.

I drop my voice to a whisper, matching her. "It is you. From 12, you were Prim's friend. What's your name? Feena?"

"Don't say it again!"

"Can you help me?" I ask, hope surging within again. I have moved from despair to hope and back again so many times in the last two years, it's like the motion of a boat on a sea, up and down, up and down. This time, however, I feel optimism like never before. If Feena can help me escape I can get to District 12 and hide my family.

"I don't know," is all she can offer. She nervously ushers me toward the exit, anxious that someone may discover us.

I stop at the door. "Is my family in the Games?" I ask, needing some form of warning before I watch the Reaping vid, as per Coin's insistence. I know the answer but confirmation will help me prepare. "Please, I need to know."

Her barely perceptible nod sends a warm shiver through down my spine. It confirms my deepest fears that Peeta, Jewel and Stone are in danger. It changes everything for me. They are in the Games so there is no point going home. I need to find the arena and reach it as quickly as possible. I will need weapons too. As Feena pushes me into the corridor she squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, providing reinforcement to my positive mood.

The other guard pushes himself off the wall where he was leaning and takes my arm, viciously dragging me back down the corridor to the interrogation room. I realise how dangerous it would be for Feena to rescue me. She may have to come with me. If I escape Coin will stop at nothing to find out how. There will be repercussions. I would have two people in the base to worry about and factor into my plans.

Back at the room I sit silently as the carnival of death continues. Some parents die with their children, some die protecting them. Parentless children can fend for themselves, with no reward except life. Surviving children may go home to contemplate life without their parent. The winner is the last remaining Contender. The commentators are particularly enthusiastic when a child dies, leaving the parent alone. When that occurs the hunters drop in from hovercraft, ghosting through the forest, electronic equipment directing them unerringly toward their targets. If the Contender can survive bothe Contenders and the hunters they deserve the Senate seat. Now that I know Peeta is in the next edition I am numb to the unfolding drama. All I can think of is the next iteration.

The vid mercifully ends, an extremely vicious woman from Missippi hunting down a timid woman from Atlantis who hid with her child for days. The feral look in the winner's eyes tells me there will be less restraint and logic in the Senate. Another way for Coin to control government: weaken any potential opposition. Straight from President Snow's manual.

Then the second vid starts and I sit through an hour of Reapings, starting with District 1 and going through to District 12, Appalachia. I notice with interest there is no Otwa or Colora, District 13 and the Capitol. I watch a range of people, all strangers to me, respond with shock, dismay, aloofness, indignation. When we get to District 12 I watch with tears in my eyes as all the Councillors stand on a stage, their children next to them. How does a person choose one child over another when deciding who has to go with them? I think that is one of the most heartless rules, that a Councillor has to choose the child.

A camera pans across the watching crowd. It pauses at Stone, who is standing with my mother asking her questions as she stands impassive. Next to them stands Johanna Mason, anger scored across her face. I haven't seen her for years. Not her fault though, it was me who was reclusive. Now she is there supporting my family, when they need me most. She looks fit and healthy, healthier than when I saw her last, six, seven, maybe eight years ago.

Jewel stands upright and proud, trying to be brave like she thinks her parents were years before. Peeta has a blank look in his eyes as he holds Jewel's hand. Then my heart bursts as the inevitable Reaping happens: Peeta and Jewel. Peeta is now unique, the first person to be reaped for three Hunger Games. If it was me I am sure I would be reacting wildly. But Peeta was always the strongest of us, in his own way. Always the first to speak out, always doing the right thing. And now he is doing the right thing, being brave in front of his children and the nation. Of all the Councillors reaped he is the most dignified, just as he was at the Senate.

I use his strength to remain externally calm, knowing Coin is watching me on a screen somewhere. I need to remain calm and keep my thinking clear. I need to remove emotion and strategise, work out how to save Peeta and Jewel. My plan is formulating: who I need, what I need, where I need to go. Who my enemies are, what obstacles I need to overcome, in what order I eliminate them. When the male guard shouts at me to stand for the third time I rise slowly and shuffle as fast as my body shackles allow, all the way to my cell. I don't know what time it is, one of the features of life underground, but I immediately lay down on the floor, since there is no bed, and close my eyes, feigning sleep. Coin can watch all he wants, all he will see is a sleeping Katniss.

A tray is placed through a metal slot in the wall but I ignore it. Even though the food doesn't smell that good it is better than anything I have had in the last two days. Still, I refuse to eat it. The food will be drugged and I need all my faculties. When an escape bid comes, and I have no idea when that could be, I need to be alert. What I do instead is sleep. Despite the situation I force my mind into a quiet state, control my breathing into a slow steady rhythm, and place my hand over my head to block out the light. Within minutes I escape my reality, only to descend into a world of unsettling nightmares.

Day 544 – Feena

The one dignity Coin allows me is the use of ablutions. I think I have been in my cell for twenty-four hours and the lights have yet to be switched off. My sleep was disturbed, my body falling or jerking out of my nightmares numerous times, each time to glaring white light, brighter than necessary. When I asked to visit the toilet they responded positively, even if they refused to remove my chains. On the way back Feena whispered that I should wait three hours and ask for a shower. Grateful as I am I cannot tell time in the cell, so I wait for what seems like 10 hours before I ask the video screen if I can shower. The screen definitely has a camera built into it, so I may as well address it, let the watchers know I am aware they are there. It takes some time before the door opens and Feena enters.

"You can shower but not in private. I will sit in the room with you. If you don't like the terms you can stay here," she says harshly.

"I understand," I say aloud, acknowledging both the words and her ruse.

In the shower room Feena and the male guard unshackle me before Feena sends him to the corridor, "Get out, I'll handle it from here. Just listen for my call." The disappointment on his ugly face would be laughable if it wasn't so sordid. He scans the length of my clothed body with lascivious hunger, then saunters out, holding the door open slightly before Feena slams it closed.

I strip as Feena starts the shower. Feena has concocted this opportunity so that we can talk without being overheard.

"Can you help me escape?" I ask, hoping that our common 12 heritage is a stronger bond than what she has here.

"It will be difficult. I need help, and we need to get you away from this base too."

"There is a complication. Someone came with me. I think he is in the service conduits. I need to find him before we leave the base."

"Splash the water, make it sound like you are washing," she says. I step into the cubicle and start waving my arm through the water.

"I don't know how to escape the cell but if you can contact a young pilot he will come. His name is Tarn Velaquez. He was with me when I was here last, he doesn't trust the leaders here." The thought and words jumped out before I could assess the idea. Now I think of it the odds of her finding him and then Tarn getting here are low. Still, I have faith he will help me.

Feena looks around, nervously checking the door is still closed and scanning the room for surveillance equipment. My request has challenged her loyalty and allegiance, as well as her personal safety. If someone is listening then she could be arrested for treason. Building a plan to help me escape will also put her in danger. For two minutes she says nothing although I can see her weighing her options. I think of trying to convince her but instead wait for her to decide alone. Finally she nods.

"Ask for a shower each day, but only late, in the evening," Feena says as she scans the room.

"I cannot tell time in the cell, the lights are always on."

"The Games start tomorrow. Wait until the arena lights drop for night, then ask for a shower."

"But that isn't soon enough, Peeta and Jewel could die the first day, it is too late!"

Feena's eyes widen in panic. I raised my voice with the last statement. I mouth 'Sorry' to her and we wait for a minute to see if the guard outside comes in.

"We can't get you out tonight. I need to talk with others, work out how to do this. It is not simple. Coin is watching the camera in your cell," continues Feena in a whisper. She is right; trying to rush will increase the chance of failure. I will have to trust Peeta to keep Jewel and himself alive. It won't just be two days, it will be longer. Frustrated as I am I need to stay calm, play my part so that I do not arouse suspicion. As Feena said, Coin is watching.

She gestures to the shower so I close the door and step into the flow. The strength and heat of the water consumes me, irresistibly drawing me under the spray. I cannot help but enjoy the luxury of a few minutes under the soothing water, despite the concern I now have about my loved ones. When I am done I dry my body slowly, not wanting to re-enter the cell too quickly. Feena waits for me to dress and then locks my shackles around my limbs and body, although not as tightly as before. I whisper my thanks to her moments before the door opens from the outside. The walk back to the cell is slow but my heart beats rapidly, as if we are running, so excited and nervous am I about the possibility of escape, of getting to Peeta and Jewel, and the possibility I will be too late.


	37. Chapter 37

Day 545 – The Games

I don't see the Games as entertainment, as many others do. The screen in my cell does not have a switch so I cannot turn it off. I only watch, disgusted with myself, because my husband and daughter are involved. Peeta is a Contender, the new word for the adult Councillors selected for the Games. At least Tribute was closer to the truth. Jewel is his Junior. I notice they steer away from using the words child, daughter and son, although each Junior is the child of their paired Contender. Whatever their title, they are victims of a cruel and sadistic tyrant who needs to be stopped. That is one of my goals but first I need to rescue them.

Through the morning they run a lead-up to the start. The presenters interview important people and experts about the chances of each Contender, talking about their delivery in the Council, their ambitions for the Senate, their physical and mental attributes. All through the interviews both presenters and experts talk as if the Contenders volunteered for the opportunity to be a Senator. I know this is not true from Coin's description of what was going to happen.

Then they show each Contender and Junior, ranking their chances of winning. There is no standard order for the Districts so I see Peeta's image, cold and definitely disapproving, near the middle of the Rankings in fifth position. The presenters describe Peeta's involvement in two previous Games, highlighting his innocence in the breakout during the Quarter Quell. They ignore his negative vote at President Alma Coin's meeting but they emphasize my positive vote and Peeta's relationship to me three times during his Ranking assessment.

I wonder how fickle the audience will be. I was once a heroine for a nation, a figurehead that led the people to freedom from a dictatorship. Now, with the twisted report of the Tribute votes, it seems like I was in favour of the Games. Little do people know the truth of my vote and the desperation of the position, knowing Alma Coin would see me as an enemy if I voted 'No'. Will they believe the contorted version presented by the Gamemakers or will they remember the truth. Those that live through the rebellion and those that learned of it at school may have differing views. The younger generations would have more information, I think. Perhaps the youth will not believe the new version. Yet I worry who I can trust, who will lend me support when I go after Jason Coin.

The parents receive extra Ranking points from their children. Peeta's initial assessment of eleventh position, due to his prosthetic leg, improves to fifth position when they add Jewel's scores. Her age, intelligence and survival capabilities rank her second amongst the Juniors which adds positively to Peeta's score. Not that rankings will make much difference for Peeta and Jewel. Coin will make sure Peeta has no Sponsors.

Jewel is the one that surprises me. The images they show of her, only recently sixteen, remind me of myself. Her hair has darkened from blond to light brown and she has more of me in her face, although as a shadow to the main look of Prim. Knowing my daughter as I do I can see she is scared but has put up a brave façade. What surprises me most is her her scores in the bush craft tests. All the time I thought she wasn't paying attention she was absorbing all my lessons. Pride fills me, tinged with sorrow, when I think of how she has matured in the last year.

I have no idea what the time is until the presenter, a bald woman with gold eyelashes and numerous piercings announces that it is midday in District 12 and one hour to the start of the Games. The woman's appearance shows that Enobaria is having trouble building the identity of the presenter between the lavish styles in the Capitol and the sober understated style of District 13. Colora and Otwa. I keep forgetting to use the names instead of the numbers.

The next hour takes longer than the previous four. I am so nervous I jangle around the small cell, stand with my back to the screen, lie down and close my eyes. Although I can block out the pictures I cannot escape the sounds and I eventually concede defeat. I roll over and sit uncomfortably, my knees at my chest, my arms and chains looped around my legs. I find myself rocking, like Finnick when he was with me here in the hospital, worried to despair over Annie. Once I recognise my action I stop and calm myself. Coin is watching and I will not give him any further cause for satisfaction.

A fanfare of trumpets announces the imminent commencement of the Games. The Contenders and Juniors, twenty-four in all, stand on pedestals in a circle in a large field. There is no Cornucopia. Instead, in a larger circle outside the pedestals are piles of supplies. So no major bloodbath to start the murders, I think, until I grasp the catch. The Juniors stand on the opposite pedestal to their Contender. Peeta and Jewel can see each other across the fifty metres of open space between them. Now I see the challenge to the two dozen victims. Do they run to their team mate or will one wait for the other? Perhaps the Contenders will go for supplies whilst the Juniors try to reach them. From the surprise on all their faces and the way they scan the others before locating each other I can see the positioning is a complete surprise to the people on the field.

To the credit of every adult and child not a single one steps off the podium until a cannon sounds. Then there is chaos. Most people start toward their parent or child, then comprehend that they are all converging on the centre of the field. Some stop and start back-tracing to the nearest supplies, others continue the sprint to their teammate. The worst are the parents who cannot make up their minds and stop, jerking undecidedly back and forth, as well as the children that sit down and start crying. I scan the image for any sign of Peeta and Jewel. Where is my daughter? And where is Peeta. I suddenly understand what it was like for my family when I was in the Games. I picture my mother and Prim in the square, taking comfort from their friends, as I bolted from my pedestal into the forest, away from the Cornucopia, each of them clinging to the other in anguish.

There! There they are. Both have run across the central area, knocking into other people as they scramble to reach each other. Some of the adults turn aggressive and start knocking over children and other Councillors. No debating here. Amidst the bodies and forever-changing viewpoint I track Peeta to Jewel. He has her safe with him. After scanning all directions he takes Jewel's arm and they head north where there seems to be fewer people. They cross the pedestal line and reach the circle of supplies where they both take up small backpacks. Peeta takes up some weapons too, including a spear and axe. Good! They have a way to fight. Jewel is shouting at Peeta and he runs with her, limping badly, away from danger and into the cover of the forest. Did someone attack him already? I didn't see anything. The cameras concentrate on the open field where a few fights start the killing. Now that Peeta and Jewel are in relative safety I turn away from the screen and cover my ears, desperate to escape the sights and sounds of my worst nightmare, The Hunger Games.


	38. Chapter 38

Day 547 – The Swap

President Jason Coin must be rolling on his floor with laughter as much as I am writhing on mine. Three days with the lights and screen permanently on have made me mentally fragile. I am struggling to sleep and am constantly bombarded by the Games. If it isn't the sound of fighting and death then it is summaries and commentary from the presenters and experts. Nightmares invade what little sleep I do get. One single event could shatter my sanity. So far Peeta and Jewel have escaped the fighting. The work well together, finding food, water and shelter quickly on the first day and then hiding well. Their vigilant forays into the forest have been short and effective.

Five of the Contenders are dead. Contenders eliminated three but hunters killed the other two after their Juniors died. One of them sat in the middle of the open field, despondent and deprived of his daughter, destined for death. The second Contender ran for three hours until she was cornered and dispatched but not before she injured one of the hunters. As night sets on the arena for the third time, there are seven Contenders and nine children still alive. To their credit the Contenders seem to avoid attacking Juniors. The three that died were victims of accidents and natural causes.

Now that it is night in the arena I ask for a shower again. I have done so each night at the same time in the hope Feena can help me escape but without luck so far. The door swings open and two new guards beckon me to follow them. Where is Feena? Should I be worried? She was here the last five days. Perhaps she has shift rotation. Without knowledge of the new guards I dare not say anything to them. We reach the shower room before I notice that both guards are male.

"Unlock my shackles here, I can shower on my own," I say, affecting my best commanding tone.

"Our orders are that you are not allowed out of our sight," says the smaller guard, smirking.

It is not like I haven't been naked in front of other people before, it is the way he looks at me that tells me this is different. "OK, then take me back to the cell," I say, turning and starting my protracted shuffle back to the cell.

"No, it is alright, you should go in alone," says the second guard. Of the two, from looks alone, I would have expected the second guard to be harder, meaner, so I am surprised he is the one that relents. He frees me from the chains and then opens the door for me before blocking the door frame behind me so that his fellow cannot follow me in.

When the door closes behind me I move to a bench and start to strip. I choke back a scream as a person steps out from a cubicle. It is Feena! She holds a finger up across her lips, then steps back to start the shower. When the sound of the water dominates the room she gestures for me to continue disrobing. She does the same, removing her uniform and placing it on the bench next to my clothing.

"What are you doing?" I whisper."

"Put my uniform on, I will take your clothes," she says.

Her ploy becomes obvious. She will take my place in the cell and I will take hers.

"I can't let you do this, Feena, it is too dangerous for replies."

"It is the only way. The guards will cover for me, for five days at least. If I keep my face away from the camera they won't see the difference," she says. It is then I see her hair is braided the same way mine is. It could work but when the ruse is discovered, there will be deadly repercussions. When Coin finds out he will have her executed. I shake my head, stopping her arm as it reaches for my clothing.

"Katniss, you know this is the only way. If you escape and are not here, Coin will order Peeta's death. The only way to rescue Peeta is for me to be you whilst you get to the arena. Once you are in the guards will release me. You need to hurry."

"Why are you doing this for me? You are taking a huge risk."

She pauses, reluctant to speak. When she does her words shock me.

"It isn't for you Katniss. It is for Prim, who was my friend, for her memory ... and for Peeta."

For Peeta? I understand Prim, but Peeta? Feena is staring at me, a flush on her skin. Could it be?

"He is a good man," I say, trying to coax more from her.

"He was the best, he is the best. He was always kind to us, back at school in 12. I lived in the Seam, like you. Peeta would give us morsels from the bakery at school. My sisters and I, we didn't lose our parents, but we were poor. No-one in my family skipped under the fence to hunt. Peeta helped us so many times. This is for him, he deserves better."

I consider her last words and wonder if she meant better than being in the Games or better than me. If it is the latter she wouldn't be the first to say so. Even Haymitch, who became a father to me and a grandfather to my children, said as much. They are right of course. People love Peeta because he always had time for people. Even when we rebuilt 12 after the rebellion Peeta would help others. His art adorns walls in just about every home in the District. He never charged for the pictures and even painted on request, especially portraits. Yes, I wouldn't be surprised if she meant the latter.

"Come on, we do not have time, we need to swap clothes before the men outside come in. Hide in the shower when I leave, wait for Milio. He will take you outside, to your pilot Tarn. From there you are on your own, but make it fast. I cannot pretend forever." Her tone has turned brusque as she tries to hide her emotions. If Feena is scared I would not be surprised. That she tries to hide it shows the depth of the fear. I owe it to her to find Peeta and Jewel quickly.

We dress and I stop the water in the shower. Before I step into a dry adjacent cubicle I hug her and whisper my thanks, grateful that she would do so much for my family. She is reluctant to return the hug but allows me to show my appreciation briefly. As I back away to hide she calls for the guard. The second guard steps in and I hear him start placing the chains on Feena. Through a gap in the curtain I see the two of them. Feena nods toward my cubicle and he looks in my direction. Has she exposed me? I thought I could trust her. I immediately feel guilty about my doubts because he finishes the shackles, kisses Feena, and then leads her out the room.

I wait a while before the door to the shower room creaks open. It is not within my view and I ponder who has come in and why. Could someone be coming to shower? Or look for me?

"Are you there? It's Milio. We need to leave," a voice murmurs.

Relief. I move out of the cubicle to find an older man, close to seventy, waiting for me. Grey hair and grey beard frame a wrinkled face marred by a scar in the place that once housed his right eye. His posture is military, upright and strong, probably after years of service in District 13. He waves for me to follow him. He checks the corridor before turning left, with me right behind him.

We travel though the darkened corridors of the base rapidly, turning left and right, taking elevators up and down as well as horizontally. Our path is not direct, Milio must be avoiding something. Patrols? Cameras? I dare not question him though; I need to trust this total stranger literally with my life. Milio finally ducks into a small huddle space and closes the door behind me.

"We wait here thirty minutes," he says, and sits on one of four tube-metal chairs surrounding a metre-square white table.

"We need to find Connor," I say.

Milio shakes his head. "That's the first thing you've said to me," he says, his voice gruff. "Who is Connor?"

"Sorry. Thank you for helping me. I really do appreciate it. Connor is my … friend … from Ireland. He travelled here with me. He escaped when the soldiers captured me and is in a service tunnel somewhere. We need to find him."

"We don't have time," he replies.

"You said we have to wait here for thirty minutes. I am sure I know where Connor is, I can reach him quickly, if you take me to the main hangar."

"I'm sorry Katniss, that isn't an option. The schedule is too tight."

"I must take him with me when I leave. He is Irish, he is a stranger to Panem. You must take me to the hangar."

"Katniss, we're helping you escape for one reason only. Your mission is to stop the Games. Your priority is your family but it is not ours. After the news of your vote for the Hunger Games there was no reason to help you as a person. For all I care Coin should shackle you to the wall to die. There are other considerations though. If you can get into the arena, which I assume is your objective, I believe you will stop the entire charade. There will be no other side missions. If this is not acceptable then I can take you back to the cell and save my friend Feena."

"My vote was 'Yes' so that I could kill Snow."

"I don't care…"

"Please, just listen. I voted 'Yes' so that I could kill Snow. If I had voted 'No' Alma Coin would have seen me as an adversary and she would not have let me kill him."

"You didn't kill him though, did you?"

"No, I didn't. In the end I killed her because she wanted to be the next Snow and he was already dying. It was the only way to ensure democracy won."

"Well that is something we have in common, a wish for democracy," he says, his demeanour softening ever so slightly.

"That is why I will stop Jason Coin too. He is like his mother, only more devious."

"Not that devious. The only reason you are here now and not in the brig is because you are alive. He personally told everyone you were dead. You being here exposed his lie. You know, when I heard you died I celebrated your death."

"That doesn't surprise me. Most people from District 13 would, seeing as I killed their President."

"No, that isn't it. You and me, we have something else in common. I'm from District Two originally, I was a peacekeeper. A good one too. I rose to be the Commander in District Nine. The seventy-fourth Hunger Games changed that. I never bought that romance thing between you and Peeta. They never should have added that dual winner ploy. It was the reason my son didn't win."

His son? District 2? That would mean… "Cato!"

"Yes, Cato. At least you remember his name. I know you ended his pain, there at the end, you didn't kill him. I should say 'thank you' for that, at least. My son was better than you. He was a good kid, not a monster like they portrayed him. He deserved to win. When they let you live, with Peeta, I knew the system was corrupt. We already knew about District 13 back then, in the Peacekeepers. I stole a hovercraft and flew here to 13. Been here ever since, except for the battle of the Capitol. That is where I lost my eye. Should have retired five years ago but I have nothing else. I can't go back to 2, there is nothing for me."

"Milio, I promise I will stop the Games. Not just for me and you, for everyone, and the memory of all the Tributes."

"You had better, because most people hate you right now."

His words are sobering, a reminder of the convoluted story Coin has spread to the country. At least my reappearance will show his lies about my death.

Leaving Connor here alone goes against my instinct; he is my responsibility. I know he decided to come with, I didn't ask him, but I still feel it is the right course of action. Then again, Peeta and Jewel cannot hide indefinitely. I know I am their only hope, I have to reach them. Damn Coin, making me choose between the people I love. And I accept in that moment that I love Connor but he is not my husband and I know Peeta needs me more. Connor is a survivor, and I will come back for him. I have to come back, to help Feena and kill Coin, I may as well add another task to the list.

"Can you look for Connor? Help him too?"

"We already have been. Nothing," says Milio.

I tell him where I think Connor will be. Connor and I have become so close that I have a strong belief I know exactly what he will do. I explain my idea to Milio and although he responds with only a single 'OK' I know he understands. Connor's survival is in Milio's hands now. I have no choice anyway.

We revert to silence, me mulling Milio's comments, Milio lost in his own thoughts. Milio checks his wristband numerous times before finally standing and gesturing for us to leave.

"We are moving to the higher levels now. When we get outside we'll move to the river and follow it downstream to a weir. Across the river at the weir there is an open piece of ground. The hovercraft can only be on the ground for three minutes. Any longer than that and the base command centre will detect a flight anomaly. After that you are on your own. You need to stop the Games. It is your duty and responsibility to us, especially Feena. I will find Connor." Milio's voice carries authority, evidence that he is used to commanding people.

I nod assent and we head down the corridor to an elevator, which rises rapidly to the top level of the base. Dust puffs as we step into a corridor lit only by the light of the elevator. This level of the base has been abandoned for many years. Milio activates a light on his wristband and sweeps the area before heading into an old canteen. Chairs and tables stand together in rows, the chairs neatly positioned under the tables, waiting endlessly for new occupants that may never come. The silence as we pause in the near-dark is eerie. It is weird to be in a place without any sound. Even wind provides some audible feedback.

Milio shines his light across the floor where footprints define a path through the level. The number of footprints shows regular visits along the same path. Guards patrolling, no doubt. We need to be careful even so close to the surface. We both instinctively step into the pathway, not wanting to raise suspicion for any guards that may pass through.

We travel a corridor to a constricted alcove where an exit sign glows above a door. Milio pushes down on a horizontal handle across the middle of the door but it doesn't budge. He shoves harder but the handle refuses to yield. My companion remains calm and shines the light all around the handle to reveal a metal bar welded underneath it. The handle is supposed to provide a simple mechanism for keeping the door locked but also making it easy to open if there is a fire. With the level abandoned they have removed the latter benefit.

"We need a level to break the weld," says Milio quietly.

"One of the chairs?" is my suggestion.

"Good. Wait here, no point us both leaving tracks," says Milio.

A minute later a sneeze signals he is back, until a voice says "that's the worst part of patrolling up here, the dust. Not sure why we even bother."

"Paranoid President, I guess," is the response.

Which side are they coming from? I am weaponless! If they see me can I beat them? They are men, naturally but unfairly bigger and stronger. I don't have much chance of disabling them both, even with surprise. I look down at my grey uniform and see it blends well into the shadows. I shift back as far as I can into the corner. The only problem is the glow of the exit light on my face. My instinct screams at me but I turn and face the corner, my back to the corridor. If they see me now I am helpless. Where is Milio? He will be coming back with a chair any moment now. There is no way I can warn him. I only hope he heard the sneeze. With the silence any sound will echo through the corridors. Please, please, let him have heard it in time.

I can hear the footsteps now as the two guards draw level with the alcove. Our footprints! They are going to see them, and then me. I will wait. As they reach to pull me out I will attack. My District 13 training taught me the hardest part of the body is the elbow. I'll swivel and strike at head height with my elbow. I tense my body, ready to unleash a blow. If they are going to take me I will make sure I fight, make them work to deprive me of my freedom. I only hope Feena isn't punished severely. Their torches illuminate the alcove slightly, then the footprints are past me, moving down the corridor, and the alcove lapses into darkness again, with the soft red and white glow of the exit sign dominating once more.

Milio? I still don't know which direction they are moving in. I move discreetly to the alcove entrance and peer around the corner. The two guards are moving toward the elevator. They pass the canteen and wait by the elevator door until a blast of light hits them as the door opens. They step into the light and out of view. Darkness returns when the door closes. My body is so tense that I take a huge breath and sigh out a blast of air. I start back down the corridor toward the canteen but Milio steps out, a chair in one hand, and walks back to me.

"That was close. They should have been finished their patrol five minutes ago," Milio says. I imagine him making a mental note to check schedules or castigate the soldiers. So that is why we had to wait. I realise without Milio I would probably have been caught a while ago. My gratitude to the people that have helped me grows. Regardless of their motivation they are the reason I have a chance to save my family.

Back in the alcove Milio uses the chair leg to apply lateral force and the weld snaps with a crack. He hands me the chair, bends the metal bar down and then opens the door. A gust of damp, stale air rushes into the niche, surprising me. I thought it would be fresh air coming from outside. The door swings wide open and I see a tunnel, carved out of the rock, running straight away from our position. At the same time the exit sign brightens, flooding the small space we are in with light. Milio checks the outside of the door. It is perfectly smooth, without a handle.

"This is a problem," says Milio. He closes the door and the sign dims once again. His conflicted face tells me everything; there are no words needed. If the door closes he won't be able to return to the base. If the door remains open the light will stay on and may alert another patrol, or there may be a warning sign in the control centre.

"Don't worry, I can go ahead alone," I say.

"There is a long dark tunnel, then a door and a gate. After that you need to find the weir in the dark. I cannot give you my wristband."

"I'll take the chair, I am sure they won't miss it. Shine your torch down the tunnel as long as you feel you can," I say. Then I step to Milio to hug him. His body tenses as I do so but I ignore the reaction. "Thank you," is all I say. It seems such a short phrase but it carries so much meaning for me. I want to thank him for helping me, for putting himself at risk, for keeping some faith in me, for his forgiveness. But we don't have time for all that. His arms wrap around me and squeeze gently. Perhaps he understands the thank you more than I expect him to.

He releases me, whispers "Good Luck" with a hint of emotion in his voice, then opens the door fully. I slip through the gap and nervously head into the tunnel. After thirty seconds the soft thump and sudden absence of light signal the door behind me is closed. Milio will be heading back into the base. The darkness is absolute. I reach out to the right and feel the wall. What happens if I cannot open the door at the end of the corridor? I will be trapped in this tunnel forever. Doomed to die underground, in the dark, like my father in the mine. Unless Tarn tells the others I didn't make it. Perhaps Milio will come looking for me again.

The floor is uneven and I concentrate on my footing, which helps calm me. I start to count the steps: left, right, one, left, right, two … The wall is damp, either from condensation or water seeping through the rock. I keep the chair in front of me with my left hand as I continue to use the right wall as a guide. Left, right, eighty-one, left, right, eighty-two.

I have never been in a place so dark that I cannot see anything. I realise how dependent we are on our ability to see. Is this what it is like to be blind? Although, from what my mother told me, blind people may be at an advantage in this place. Once, after a miner who lost his sight came for treatment, my mother told me that blind people have enhanced senses of hearing and touch. They can hear better than sighted people, feel finer details. That would definitely help now. Left, right, two-hundred twenty-two, left, right, two-hundred twenty-three.

After a few minutes of careful stepping the chair knocks into somethings. I shuffle forward, feeling ahead until my hand touches a smooth surface. It is slimy and definitely artificial. I daren't put down the chair, I may never find it again, so I use my right hand to explore the surface ahead of me. It is a door. I feel a hinge on the right and a crack between the frame and the door itself. The handle must be on the left. I switch the chair to my right hand and with my left hand find a handle at waist height. I try to twist the handle but it is stuck. Is it welded? That would be a disaster. I try the handle again and it moves a fraction. Excitedly I push harder and the handle grinds downward. Then it jams again. I drop the chair and use both hands and my body weight to push down. Something releases and as my hands drop down my head hits the door.

I ignore the pain. I can get through the door! I push hard against the door but it is stuck fast. Maybe there is another lock. I fell up and down the left of the door but there is nothing else. I twist the handle down and use my shoulder to force the door open, without success. I can't believe it. The door might be locked. I feel around the handle but there is no keyhole. I lean my arm against the door, despair threatening my state of mind.

Then I curse myself and start laughing, the sound echoing down the tunnel. The hinges are on this side of the door. I push down the handle and pull the door open, elated as air once again blows against my face. This time the air is fresh, carrying the fragrance of pine needles and rain. I expected light as well, despite knowing it is night-time, and am not disappointed. Through a framed wire mesh gate a few metres away shines moonlight, pale silver but gold to me. It takes a few seconds to adjust after the claustrophobic darkness that I have endured for close on ten minutes.

I reach back for my chair and step through the door, allowing it to close behind me. It has no lock or handle on the outside and I do not care. There is no way I am going back into that tunnel. Ever! I turn my attention to the gate in front of me. A small pile of leaves and dirt sit against the outside the gate. Two locks, one high and one low, provide security from outside entry. Now I start to worry that I don't have enough time to open this much heavier door in time to reach the landing site. I ignore the locks and use the chair and my feet to pound at the lower wire mesh panel. The more anxious I get about the time the more frantic my efforts. I close my eyes, gather my thoughts, and direct my blows at a corner near the lower lock. A weld breaks, and another! I sit on the ground and with both feet kick near the break. More welds give way until I am able to bend the mesh enough to wriggle through a gap. I am out! I am free!

The forest is wet with recent rain as I leap and plunge down the mountainside to the river, slipping and falling numerous times in my haste to reach the rendezvous point. At the river, now flowing strongly after the rain, I turn and weave my way through the dense foliage, loving the feel of the woods and plants on my skin. This is my own land, my home. It may be District 13 but it is Panem! My forward movement may be slower than I want but it is deliberate and steady, my hunting experience helping me navigate in the moonlight through the woods.

When I reach the weir I recognise it immediately. I was here before, with Gale. We crossed here when hunting. A feint path leads me to the crossing but when I reach it the water is flowing too fast. It will be too dangerous to try for the other side where the rendezvous point is.

I run along the river below the weir looking for a potential ford. Then I see it. A tree leaning over the water, all the way to the other side. The wet bark on the tree makes it difficult to climb but I make it up to a large branch that hangs over the river. My hands hold a smaller branch above me for balance and I edge along the branch far enough to clear the water. I check the ground thoroughly on the other side before jumping. I have twisted my ankle jumping out a tree before and cannot afford an injury now, not when I am about to go into a hostile environment.

As my feet hit the ground I roll, diffusing the impact. I am up, running away from the river, toward the clearing. At the edge I hide inside the treeline, catching my breath, fearing that Tarn has already been and gone. What do I do if he has already gone? Don't think like that Katniss, I say to myself. I start to plan, knowing now that I am in control of my own destiny, and that of my family. How do I find the arena? They said it was in Appalachia on the broadcast, so that is District 12. I hope Tarn knows. I am going to need weapons. A bow for sure, it is quiet and deadly in my hands.

As I am thinking of my next steps I hear the sound of a hovercraft, coming in from the south. It is low, flying along the contours of the ground. I see it; small, two-seater, like the one I boarded the last time I saw Peeta, Jewel and Stone. It has to be Tarn. The hovercraft doesn't circle the area like they usually do, checking for the best place to land. Instead it drops over the trees and onto the earth, jolting as it thuds into the soil.

The canopy opens and a helmeted figure springs out, rifle in hand. I am halfway to the craft before I realise I broke cover without checking, but it is too late now. I reach the person as the helmet is removed and I see a young man, recognise his face, see his joy as he recognises me. As I reach him I want to cry, laugh, shout for joy. I don't know how to feel, I feel every emotion I have all at once. I am a mess, so I grab him and hug him hard, this young man I barely know.

"You came! Thank you, thank you, thank you," I blurt out.

"What happened? Where have you been? No, tell me when we are up. We need to leave, fast. Hop in the back seat. I have food for you, and hot chocolate," Tarn says, his smile reflecting my own huge grin.

Day 548 - Arena

The largest thunderstorm I have seen for two years rages around our fragile hovercraft, threatening not only the craft but also my mission. Although Tarn is not concerned I worry about lightning striking us, or me when I drop toward the landing zone. The wind buffets us as Tarn wrestles with the controls, not willing to use the auto-pilot. Visibility is also close to zero, forcing Tarn to use instruments only to calculate our position over the drop zone. There is one good aspect to the storm: it provides great cover for my insertion into the arena.

It is twenty-three hours since Tarn rescued me from District 13. In that time I slept for nine hours while Tarn flew us to our lake in District 12. Although I wanted to go straight to my house and take Stone and my mother to safety I decided it would be better to plan all actions first. After I awoke we sat and discussed my enforced exile in Ireland, Coin, and the Games. Then I started planning how to rescue my family, all of my family.

Having Tarn is a boon that I will never be able to repay. He has deserted his duties to help me, knowing the punitive consequences if he is caught. Prior to fetching me he disabled the transponder in his hovercraft so that the government wouldn't be able to find us. His contribution to my planning has also been invaluable, helping find a solution to getting me in to the arena, as well as my safety and movement when I am there. I am wearing camouflage overalls, one size too big, belted at the waist, a protective polycarbonate suit under the overalls, and a full-face combat helmet with a visor that has three modes – normal, infrared and shaded. On my back is a parachute for low-level emergency deployment and on my front is a backpack with food, water, a first-aid kit, a communicator, a knife, a pistol and ammunition. Tucked under the straps is Tarn's police rifle. All are Tarn's standard-issue police equipment. Luckily he is only one size bigger than I am.

"Remember, keep your body straight, count to ten, then pull the cord like I showed you," he says before stabilising the hovercraft and opening the canopy.

The rain slaps me as the wind blasts it into the cockpit, shocking me into the reality of the danger I now face. The hovercraft rocks as Tarn fights the storm, trying to keep still long enough for me to jump. I pull myself up, struggling with all the equipment strapped onto me. I get my leg over the edge of the cockpit and look down into the grey and black cloud below us.

"Hold the straps, before you jump, keep them in your hands," shouts Tarn over the cacophony of the storm and hovercraft engine. I fish around until I find the two straps and hold them tight. "Good luck, remember to steer for open ground. Only call when I need to fly in."

I hold his eyes for a few seconds. This is possibly the scariest thing I have ever done, jump out of a hovercraft from a kilometre above the ground. In normal times I would never do this, not even with clear skies. The motivation is Peeta and Jewel somewhere below, hiding in the wet forest, fearing for their lives. The rain is blurring my goggles, as well as soaking Tarn and the interior of the hovercraft.

Time to go! Deep breath. I lean sideward and gravity takes me. My stomach lifts to my throat and I want to let out a scream but every muscle in my body stiffens and I drop into the darkness in silence. I look up and see the hovercraft blend into the cloud and disappear. I tumble over twice then remember to straighten my body which helps to orient my body, head down. Count! I forgot to count! How many seconds have I been falling? Start at five. No. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Pull the cord. Which one? Left or right? I am starting to panic, I have forgotten everything Tarn told me. I pull the left cord and a parachute bursts out the pack, whipping up and then catching me, stopping me fall. It feels like the chute has yanked me up but I know I am still descending, just slower than before.

I search through the rain for the ground. I need to make sure I roll as I hit or I could break my legs. The wind is blowing harder down here and I twist in the parachute as gusts hit me from the left and behind. Tarn told me to steer but I don't know where I would steer. I grab the handles anyway, ready to react. I can see nothing but darkness and rain falling past me. The parachute doesn't even act as an umbrella; the wind is driving the rain at an angle.

A shape appears below me. A tree. Trees! A forest, and the wind is pushing me toward it. My target was the open field where the Games started. I tug down on the right handle and the parachute starts swinging but the wind is too strong for my efforts to make much difference. I release the handles to protect my face when I hit a tree. The parachute drops and I plummet the last three metres into the hard ground, tumbling over and over as the parachute drags me until the parachute catches in the trees. The impact and subsequent battering winds me and I lie still for a full minute before I roll over and slowly get to my feet, setting my visor to infrared.

Tarn told me to gather the parachute, hide it in the woods so I take off both packs and start to pull the parachute down. Despite my efforts it doesn't come free; the branches have snagged the material. I even lift my entire body off the ground hanging off the parachute. After sixty minutes I am desperate. I am soaked through, wetter than a fish, and the parachute is still trapped in the tree. If I cannot extricate it my presence will be seen in the morning, which will be a disaster.

A different tact is required, so I take out my knife and cut the cables on one side of the pack. Once the one side is loose the parachute comes away quickly and I gather it up, cursing myself that I took so long to fix the problem. My efforts have left me tired, hungry, bruised and saturated. Another hour of waiting can't hurt, especially is the storm blows over, so I decide to rest, wait to see if the Game Makers have seen me, and recuperate.

I move into the forest and hide the parachute as best I can, considering the conditions, and the fetch my rifle and backpack from the clearing, hiding back within the treeline. My backpack, dry inside, holds some food, including quick snacks such as biscuits and jerky. I opt for the jerky as the biscuits wouldn't last seconds in this rain. After an hour staring out into nothing I decide to walk straight across the open field instead of circumventing it through the forest. The weather has not relented and I doubt anyone is watching the cameras. The producers are probably showing highlights, if they can be called high, of the previous days for anyone sleepless or crazy enough to be watching so late at night.

The move initially proves to be a good one. I cannot believe my luck as I pass along the ring of supply boxes still laid out on the earth. There, on the fifth pile of supplies, propped against an empty box, is a bow and quiver. Very few people would know how to use a bow so it makes sense no one took it, especially Councillors. Most Councillors in the last few years have been talkers and administrators, not doers and people of action. Many see the job as an easy way out of the hard life of farming, building and other manual work.

Buoyant from the possibility that my fortune could be improving I push on due east, hoping to cover the two kilometres to the stripping pit dam within an hour. From there I will move north of the dam and continue east toward the far side of the dam where Peeta and Jewel are hiding. The going is tougher than I expected though. The wind is an easterly one, funnelled into the valley, gusting straight at me. If I was in the trees I wouldn't have a straight path but it would be easier than this. I trudge forward, caught between moving into the forest and toughing out my current path.

The arena is not the same as the artificial arenas that the Capitol built for the Hunger Games. The old Game Makers designed the arena and selected terrain to suit the requirements. They sometimes built domes for control of the entire spectacle, from weather and sunlight to containment of the Tributes. That necessitated the arenas being smaller than this one. This arena, used for the second year now, is a far larger, natural valley near District 12. The Game Makers believe the vast spread of the area with diverse terrain will provide a strong platform for years. Part of the build-up I watched in District 13 described the area. There are mountainside forests peppered with rocky outcrops and overhangs, old mining holes and deserted, derelict buildings. Bare swaths of land from strip mining hundreds of years ago cover most of the southern area, where coal residue from the ancient strip mines has prevented nature from claiming the land back. A large stripping pit dam dominates the water supply, supplemented by smaller reservoirs and a creek that runs from the western boundary north-east to the mountain boundary along the northern rim of the valley. The northern, eastern and southern boundary lines run along the tops of mountains whilst the western boundary line runs across the end of a flat area. The entire boundary consists of three fences, all electrified, keeping Contenders in and others out. Not that many people would know where the arena is. Tarn only knew because he flew some Contenders and Juniors in last year.

I decide on the forest. It will protect me from the weather tonight and provide cover for me tomorrow. Tired has turned to exhausted and I will be useless without rest, preferably sleep. Half a kilometre later I am in the trees to the north looking for a place to hold up. A large outcrop of rocks looms ahead and I find a niche in the lee of the rocks that provides shelter from the storm. Some branches cover me further, from the storm and prying eyes. Sitting up, rifle across my lap, I close my eyes and ask the universe to protect us as I drop into a tumultuous sleep.


	39. Chapter 39

Day 549 – Hunting

Morning brings with it a break from two storms, the one outside and the one in my head. The sun is burning away the cloud and I dread how humid it will be soon. With two layers of clothing, neither of which I feel I can discard, and a helmet, I expect physical suffering as I hike the four kilometres to the last known location of my husband and daughter. My delirium last night fuelled the urgency of my task. Visions of death, suffering and enemies refused to leave me the entire night. There is no sun to burn away my internal clouds though. Traumatised by the images I set off as the sky starts to lighten.

By eight in the morning I have reached the edge of the stripping pit dam. The going is slow as I weave through the forest, alert for hidden cameras as I go. At one stage I dart across an ancient roadway coming down from the mountain, overgrown with grass and a few bushes. A metal sign, mostly rusted but still standing, has the sun-faded letters **Shenandoah** on it. I stop to stare, wondering how old the sign is. It certainly looks much older, possibly a hundred years older, than anything back in 12. Beyond the road I push through thick foliage and almost fall down a steep slope into the stripping pit dam.

A stripping pit dam is the remnant of an old mine. Instead of digging tunnels into the earth, like our mine at 12 were my father died, the miners remove the overlying ground and excavate the mineral that lays on the surface. Hundreds of years ago, once the miners depleted the seam, which could vary in size and depth, they stopped siphoning off water and the hole left behind started to fill, creating dams, often with very steep sides. It is one of these dams that almost ends my life. I scramble to stop my slide on the loose grey scree, avoiding a fall of over eighty metres into the pit that I suspect I would not survive. The view is so spectacular though that once I find a stable shelf I stop to rest and break my fast whilst I take in the scene. Thirty minutes of absorbing what would be a beautiful place if not for the horrific events unfolding here helps me cool down and renew my energy.

Then I am up and once again hiking east, careful to spot cameras as I go. The cameras are easy to see. They are not camouflaged at all, pinned high in the trees to provide a broad view. The more I think about it the more I doubt Coin had substantial funds to run the Hunger Games. The rudimentary arena and limited tech all point to financial constraints. There must be more resistance to the Games than he let on when saying they were popular. I am not surprised though. If I was a person voting for the Games and was in line to be Reaped then I wouldn't vote for funds either. Perhaps Coin has less power than I thought.

Near the end of the ridge running north of the dam I hear a scream. It is the scream of a child. A man's voice shouts out a name in panic. Something has threatened one of the Juniors. I cannot help it, I break into a run toward the noise. I reach a depression and almost slide down the slope. The man's voice is calling again, panicked. At the edge of the slope running at a steep angle to the dam I see a dark, short-haired man on his belly, clad in a dark green Contender suit, reaching over the edge. A few metres below him, holding onto a small shrub, is a young boy, his light green attire marking him as a Junior. I stop, assessing their position. I don't have any rope.

I start toward them when I realise the man may not be friendly. If I try to help he could kill me. He might think I am a Contender, or more likely one of the hunters. With my weapons and uniform I don't look like a Contender.

"Hello," I say from behind a tree, then again, louder, "Hello!"

The man almost jumps into the air from his prone position. He grabs a short stabbing spear and points it in my direction, the tip amplifying the shaking of his hands. His fear of me is visible in his face and stance. Then he checks over his left shoulder, down at his son. He has more concern for his son, so I step out from the tree and remove my visor.

"Don't worry, I am here to help," I say, but he remains unconvinced, holding his defensive crouch. Do I reveal myself to him? I am not sure how else to allay his fears. I could move on, leave him alone with his son. My priority has to be my family. But I cannot. I remove my helmet completely. If there are any cameras my gambit is up.

"I am here to help. I won't kill you. Your son needs help," I say, walking toward him, my heart beating faster from anticipation.

His face scrunches with a hint of uncertain recognition as he takes a small step backward.

"You know who I am? I am looking for my husband and daughter. Do you know where they are? Let me help you. I have equipment. And food," I say, sweet-talking him. Why am I doing this?

"You were dead," he says, still uncertain. I remember how untrusting I was in the Games, I cannot blame him for the response.

"Not dead, just lost," I respond.

I decide he is too timid to attack me so I let go my restraint and walk toward the edge to look down at his son. He is holding on with both arms, his body at a forty-five degree angle. I doubt he can hold much longer.

"If we can get another branch, or a rope, down to him, the two of us can pull him up," I tell the man. I shuck my backpack and ruffle through the contents, hoping for something but finding nothing. I place everything on the ground. My backpack, food, a canteen of water, first aid kit, bow and quiver, rifle, helmet. I consider tying the straps of the rifle and quiver together but they won't be strong or long enough. The bow is too short, the bowstring too thin.

All this time the man is staring at me, his spear still pointed at me.

"Put that down, I could have killed you when you were on your belly. Tell your son to hang on tight," I say, trying to keep my voice soft and non-threatening.

Behind him, amongst the trees, are some saplings. I pull out my knife, walk around him to a one of the thinner ones, and use the serrated spine of the knife to saw at the base before kicking at the stalk until it cracks and falls over. I saw more though the remaining fibres then drag the tree to the edge. I hack off a number of the branches then call the man to help.

"Hi, what's your name?" I ask the boy when I look down the slope.

"Talon." His voice is quavering. He is seventeen, maybe eighteen, although he is small in stature. The fuzz on his chin is the only thing that gives away his age. His black eyes look back at me, mixed with hope and fear.

"Talon, we are going to lower a branch down to you. You need to get a strong grip on your bush with your right hand and then reach over and grab the branch hard with your left. You should be able to jam your foot into the smaller branches. Only let go of your bush when I tell you. You understand?"

He nods back at me.

I turn back to his father who still holds his spear.

"Put that down, help me with the tree."

He drops the spear and helps me swing the tree toward the edge. In so doing we bump my helmet. It rolls over the edge and tumbles down the slope before launching out over the water to disappear from view. I listen for a splash but hear nothing. We ease the tree over the edge of the slope so that the leaves are at the lower end. Together we pull it across to his son who stretches across and takes a hold before letting go of the bush. As he does his left hand slips and he slides down the slope. Somehow he grabs lower down the tree, the momentum almost pulling us over the crest. I sit and dig my feet into the earth, bracing the tree, grunting with effort.

The father takes a new grip on the tree and starts to pull backward, away from the slope. Inch by inch we lift the tree, the father pulling like a tug-o-war and me providing stability. When the boy appears at the crest I reach out and grab him. The man lets go of the tree and it slides away, following my helmet. This time a crash signals the tree hitting the bottom but the two of them don't seem to care. They hug each other, both trembling with relief, the father more tearful than his son.

I stand and move over to my pack where I take out some of the biscuits and packs of dried fruit, which I set on the ground before repacking my backpack. I also keep two bandages out of the first-aid kit, an idea forming in my mind. The helmet is gone but I still have the visor, which can act as a mask. I look around and sure enough, high up on a tree about twenty metres away is a camera, pointing straight at us. No need for a mask then.

"Hey. You had better run, find a place to hide, the hunters are coming," I say.

"The hunters only come if a child dies, or after the ten day limit. We are only at five," says the father. I don't know his name and I prefer to keep it that way.

"They won't be after you, they'll be looking for me. Don't be surprised if the Game Makers bring the endgame forward though." I pack all my equipment back on and toss the food and two bandages to him, along with a single arrow. "Use the arrow to cut the trackers out of your arms then wrap the wounds with the bandages. The hunters won't find you if you stay hidden."

I take my pistol from the holster and shoot the camera on the second shot. That way the watchers will be left guessing in which direction I went. The visor has a band that straps it to my head instead of clipping into the helmet so I strap it on. Any advantage could help in the hours ahead. I tramp into the forest without looking back. The less connection I have with anyone the better; I don't need more baggage. The undergrowth is thicker here and I struggle north-east for an hour uphill until at last I find a break in the forest. A thin path runs east-west in a perfectly straight line. I get the idea it is another road built by our ancestors, abandoned and reclaimed by nature. The path is flat and wide enough for me to start jogging. My only concern is cameras. I manage to spot three and duck off the path, looping around each camera.

The path unfortunately ends after a kilometre when it intersects a small creek bed. I know Peeta is near two reservoirs, one five times the size of the other. Should I follow the creek north or south? Just as I start to second-guess myself I see a gap between two trees to the north. Another pathway? I trust my instinct and turn left, heading north. Two hundred metres later the path bends to the east.

As I read the bend I hear the roar of a hovercraft overhead. They have found me. I must have missed a camera! Rifle or bow? I unhitch the bow. Without a tracker they won't know exactly where I am. If I stay quiet I may be able to kill a few of the hunters before they locate me. Unexpectedly the hovercraft moves to the northeast and I hear the engine pitch change as the craft descends. What if I was wrong? Would they be going after someone else? If they know it is me in the arena, they can predict why I am here!  
Peeta and Jewel! They must be nearby, and by the direction of the hovercraft they are northeast. In their haste to prevent me reaching my family they have revealed their location. I could have slunk around the forest for hours looking for them. Suddenly I feel I have the advantage. I have a guide to my target and the hills and forests are just like my woods back home, where I spent three decades hunting. I know how to conceal myself, move quietly when stalking prey. They also do not know where I am.

I run, jump and dodge northeast through the thickest parts of the forest, knowing they are no longer looking for me. The slope drops away to a clearing alongside a reservoir. By the size I believe the reservoir is the larger of the two. Yes, to my direct right is a smaller reservoir. I see six hunters heading south-east, aiming between the two bodies of water, as their hovercraft lifts off into the sky and returning to the west. Peeta must be over to the east, near the smaller of the two reservoirs. That would be sensible. Look for the less-desirable water source, stay near it, maybe even catch a fish.

The six hunters, dressed in individual interpretations of camouflage, spread out in a line, traipsing eastward. One of them holds an electronic device in front of him that must indicate where their targets are. I have the element of surprise but I am still a hundred metres behind them. I dash to my right, speeding through the woods, trying to flank the hunters. If they reach Peeta first, will they kill on sight or are they intent on capturing him? I cannot take the risk.

I am gasping for breath in my outfit and visor when I glance left and catch a glimpse of one of the hunters, level with my position. Now that I am level I need to ensure I remain undetected. I slow down, keeping low to avoid detection, and try to maintain a high pace. A sinkhole appears in front of me and I nearly fall into it due to watching everything except my footing. We cannot be very far now so I shift my path, angling northeast again to insert myself between the hunters and my family. I skirt in so close I can hear the hunters talking amongst themselves. "Gonna get me a kill today"…"About time we had some action"…"How far now?"…"A bottle of sour mash says I get the girl"… "A hundred metres. Shut up now".

I veer right, slipping quietly through the woods now. I count my short steps, up to one hundred. Peeta and Jewel are here somewhere. I scan the shadows. Are they hiding in one place or are they retreating? Surely they heard the hovercraft. It would be better for me if they remained in one place. I could set up an ambush, use them as bait. Not bait, rather a focal point for the hunters.

Movement! I hunch down, peering through the speckled colours of the forest, and I see her. It is Jewel. Luckily my throat constricts with emotion so when I try call out to her I only manage a strangled squeak. What is she doing? And where is Peeta? She has a long throwing spear in her hand, held halfway as if she is poised to throw it. She is getting ready to fight. She looks like Prim, blonde hair tied back in a single plait, lithe but petit. In her face there is a fierceness, like a cornered wolverine. All her life she has mimicked Peeta, gentle, artistic, being a peacemaker, a friend to all. Now, in this one thing I see me, fierce and ruthless when she is threatened, or protecting her loved ones.

A crack to my left signals the imminent arrival of the hunters. If she throws the spear they will fire and with the rifles I saw, I doubt she will survive. I need to kill them all quickly. No, I will never get all six; I cannot even see them yet. I unhook my rifle and place it on the ground behind one of the larger trees near me. Then I nock an arrow and with a quarter draw I aim for the tree in front of Jewel. The arrow flies in a looping arc and pegs in the tree, stunning Jewel. She swivels to look at me, frightened. I wave for her to move backward, gesticulating with my arm in the direction behind her, but she remains still, unsure of me. She doesn't know it is me!

I rip my visor off and drop it behind me, revealing to my daughter for the first time in a year and a half my face. She drops the spear, her hands rise up to her mouth and her knees buckle. I watch her fall to the ground and I want to run and hold her, hug her, kiss her forehead and tell her I am home, that everything will be alright. But I can't. Not yet. Tears blur my vision and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve before waving for her to move backward again. This time she follows the command and scuttles away from her position, away from the approaching hunters.

As she moves away from the immediate danger I devise my tactics. Six hunters. Six arrows? Or perhaps a few arrows and then the rifle or pistol to finish them off. What happens when they are all dead? I cannot think of that right now. I remove the safety strap from the holster on my hip and make sure it is loose. I lay out two arrows on the ground next to the rifle and nock a third. I need to use the bow as long as possible. I flatten myself against the tree, not knowing how far back Jewel has gone, and wait. The first hunter appears in my field of view but still I wait. The second and third join him. When he reaches the spot where Jewel was he stoops to pick up the spear, turning to show the others. Now I can see five of them, clustered together, discussing the spear and their next steps.

Where is their missing colleague? Then he steps between them and me, two metres from my position, looking toward them. I duck back behind the tree. If they look at him they might see me. My rifle and arrows are on the ground, if he turns he will see them. One of the group calls "Move out" and I hear the crunch of dead leaves and twigs as the closest hunter starts forward again. I come around the tree and as the others disappear I draw my bow and shoot him through the back of the chest from five metres away. He drops to his knees instantly, his posture holding him up for a few seconds before he topples forward, thumping into the ground.

I retrieve my two arrows and rifle and then swiftly and silently cover the distance to the point where I first saw Jewel, now behind the hunters. I see all five walking in a line away from me. How far did Jewel go? And where is Peeta? I choose the hunter on the far left, a large man with a long beard and a shaved head, as he is a little behind the others. Never shoot someone in the back? Too late, I just did, and I plan to again. My second arrow travels further than the first needed to but it is just as effective. It strikes through the red bandanna around his throat and appears through his larynx on the other side. He grapples the arrow with both hands and pivots to see his attacker. He sees me but is unable to do anything to warn the others. Does he recognise me, know who was responsible for his demise.

Before he falls I launch another arrow at the next man in the line. This man doesn't live more than a second after the arrow strikes the base of his skull, and hits the ground before his dead cohort. My fourth arrow is flying as the intended victim turns, alerted by the sound of bodies hitting the earth. His arms raise to block the impact and the arrow pierces through the arm, scratching his neck. The next arrow misses completely as he ducks behind a tree.

Surprise is gone and I drop the bow, raising the rifle and firing four quick shots at each of the last two hunters. Bullets tear through vital organs, tearing life away from both men. I sprint over to the one remaining hunter, the one with an arrow through his arm. The gunfire still echoes off the surrounding trees as I reach him. He is trying to reach a revolver on his right hip with his left hand but stops as I step into his view. I can smell the blood and burnt gunpowder, as well as his body odour.

I raise the rifle and point it at him. "Don't, please don't…" he pleads with his hands raised as I stand over him.

Jewel

"You came here for death, now you will see it first hand," I snarl. Jewel may be a wolverine but I am the she-wolf, the most deadly predator we have in Panem. The smell of urine burns my sinuses. I don't care how scared he is, he came here to hunt, he shouldn't expect to avoid danger.

"Mom?" her voice sounds from my right. I want to go to her but this man is a threat, he still has his weapon. I can't execute him in front of her though.

"Where is your father?" I ask, thinking of a way to extricate us from the situation. We need to be fast, there will be other hunters on the way. Or heavier weaponry, perhaps. Coin is mad enough to order bombing, although there probably aren't any bombers nearby. We have time, but not much.

"He is back here, his leg is septic. He can't walk. Mom…"

I swing the rifle butt back and down, crunching into his temple and knocking him unconscious. Or killing him, I am not sure, and I don't care. He isn't a threat anymore.

Then I am with her, holding her and hugging her, and kissing her forehead. "It's going to be OK, I am getting you out of here."

"I knew you were alive, I knew it all along. I knew it, when that man from Otwa said it on the television, I knew he lied," Jewel cries the words more that says them. I try to let her go but she holds on even tighter. I want to stay here, in this embrace, forever, but I know we need to move.

"We need to go, before more hunters come. Show me where your father is."

Jewel releases me and heads back into the woods, away from the creek. She bounds around and over the underbrush with the vigour of youth. I have to crash through it to follow her. Fifty metres back she loops behind some rocks and stops. I come around to her place and there he is, lying on the ground, pale and feverish like he was when Cato cut his leg open. His trouser leg is torn open, exposing the prosthesis. An accident has cut the leg near the join and the skin is red and inflamed. I have never seen him this thin, and it is not just from the Games. This couldn't have happened in five days. His appearance shocks me so much I let out a cry of anguish. His eyes open and he looks into my eyes, holding my gaze. His smile is weak.

"You look more like your mother every day, Ju," he says. He thinks I am Jewel. To see my husband like this breaks me. I try to hold it in but the emotion bursts out of me. I step over and drop to my knees next to him, taking his hand, cold and clammy, and raise it to my cheek, my tears flowing onto it. The sickly odour of his infection almost triggers my gag reflex.

"It's me Peeta, it's Katniss," I say, each word catching on the sobs I struggle to keep in.

"Katniss? She is gone, Ju," he says, still not lucid.

"No Peeta, I am here, I have come to take you home," I lean down and kiss his forehead. "It's my job to look after you, isn't it?"

"Katniss?" His question is laced with confusion.

"Yes Peeta, it's me. I've come to take you home." I caress the side of his face, soothing him, concerned he is so sick I may not get him home. What will I do if I lose him just as I get him back? I push the thought from my mind; it is not something I want to contemplate right now.

Peeta reaches up and takes my braid, rubbing it between his fingers. Then he touches my face. "I don't have to ask," he says, "You are real… I missed you. The kids missed you. Where is Jewel?"

"She's right here," I answer, beckoning to her to join us. She drops down on the other side of Peeta, tears in her eyes. I realise how much she has taken on, caring for him while the threat of death has raged around them. In his delirious state he would have been no help at all. She has managed to find rudimentary shelter, food and water. She has kept them both alive. I reach over to hug her, wishing all my strength and gratitude into her.

I unstrap my backpack and fish out the first-aid kit, hoping there is medication for Peeta. Now is the time I need my mother more than ever. She would know what to do. Bandages, scissors, swabs, ointments, pain killers, they all end up on the ground. Then I find an antibiotic nano-injection. I am not sure what the antibiotic is supposed to fight but I use it anyway, pushing the head of the injector against his neck, near the vein. I check the rest of the first-aid kit and find two booster shots that I inject into Peeta. In the suture packs I find anaesthetic patches along with needle and medical thread.

"Where is your tracker?" I ask Jewel. She points to her left arm. Peeta's must be in the same place. "Roll your sleeve up," I tell her. She does so without taking her eyes off me. It must be surreal for her, me sitting her in front of her, dressed in combat fatigues, weapons hanging off me. Or maybe it is the fact I just killed five, maybe six, trained hunters.

Peeta has drifted into unconsciousness so it is the perfect time to remove the tracker. The sleeve on Peeta's arm is not loose so I take the knife and slice the sleeve lengthwise to the elbow. I feel for the tracker then place a patch on it. The instructions for the patch says to keep the patch in place for ten minutes before stitching. I hope it is the same for cutting. I give the second patch to Jewel and she copies my actions, finding the tracker and placing the patch over it.

While we wait I pull out the communicator, switch it on, and walk away from Peeta and Jewel to call Tarn.

"Tarn, can you hear me? Tarn?"

I call four times without a response. I need him to fly in soon. Peeta is unable to walk in his delirium. Jewel and I will struggle to carry him, even to the reservoir. I wonder if Tarn can land, come to us and help carry Peeta back to the hovercraft. I cannot see any other way. The hovercraft he has is too small to carry more than one, maybe two passengers and it doesn't have a cradle to pick up a body. It is something I didn't think of until I considered the details of extracting us all. I guess Tarn didn't either. I walk back to the others and try to hide my concern from Jewel.

"How long has it been?" I ask.

"Almost ten minutes," she replies, and I decide to start on Peeta's tracker. I take Tarn's knife and remove the patch to make a small incision above the tracker, then use tweezers in the kit to pull the oblong metal capsule out of his flesh. Jewel swabs away some blood and I stitch the inch-long cut closed.

"My turn," says Jewel before I can say anything. Brave as she is, her arm is shaking even before I start the incision. I want to ask her what has been happening, about school friends, anything to distract her, but it seems too trivial and I sit in silence with her as I cut into her tanned arm. She lets out a short cry before biting her lip. I see the fingers on her right hand dig in to the flesh on her left arm where she is steadying it. Amazingly she doesn't pull away, holding her arm firmly in place while I cut and then remove the tracker. Even when I stitch she remains stoic. The anaesthetic from the patch wasn't that effective and will probably wear off soon. Do I risk giving her a pain killer? What if it is too strong?

Together we pick up all the evidence of the field surgery and Jewel drops it down a sinkhole that, from the rancid odour, they have used as a toilet. I pick up the two trackers and consider our options. "We should crush them," suggests Jewel, holding her arm. Perhaps crushing the tracker is a form of revenge.

"No, if they are active we could use them as a diversion," I say. The longer we avoid then next wave of hunters the better.

"I can take them through the forest and drop them in the creek," suggests Jewel.

"How…? That's actually a good idea. Find something that will make them float, they will bob along the surface, hopefully far from here."

Small resealable packets in the first-aid kit make the perfect containers. Jewel drops each bloody tracker into a packet and ensures some air remains in the packets before standing to dispose of them.

She is off into the woods, toward the area I first saw her, leaving me alone with unconscious Peeta. I take the opportunity to call Tarn again and relief washes over me when he answers.

"Please come to the reservoir, the larger of the two we saw," I say.

"There are too many hovercraft flying at the moment, I won't make it to you."

"Peeta is very sick, I am not sure what is wrong, his leg is infected but it seems more than that."

"I cannot help right now, I will never make it past," he responds.

"OK, thanks. What next?"

"Keep comms open, I will advise if I can find a way. Good news, I have Stone and your mother. They are safe," he says.

That is a relief for me. After I jumped Tarn flew to 12 to fetch them, stealing them away before Coin's troops suspected anything. Now I need to find a way to extricate us from the arena.

I sit in silence, staring at my poor Peeta, until Jewel returns.

"I think you killed the sixth guy," she says matter-of-factly, brushing off the death as a normal incident. Well, one less opponent to worry about.

"How did your dad get so sick?" I ask, trying to work out how sick he is.

"Before the Games, after they took us at the Reaping, dad started arguing, saying the Reaping was rigged. The soldiers beat him. I screamed but they just held me while they did it. One of them kicked his leg and tore the skin. The nurses gave him medicine but it made him vomit five, no, six times. He was limping before we even started. Without clean water and proper medicine the leg became infected. He has gotten worse each day. I didn't know what to do," she says. So brave, so grown up. She has changed so much.

"You did well to keep him safe and alive. I have a friend who is coming to get us. Dad will be fine; I promise."  
She only nods, then puts her arms around me. "I am glad you are back, never go again. Please."

We stand that way, arms around each other, Jewel only an inch shorter than me, comforting each other. Amidst the encroaching forces I know are coming, I give my daughter the one thing we don't have, time. I hold her as long as I dare, trying to make up for eighteen months in a few minutes.

"We need to move away from here. The next hunters will come looking for us soon. Once they work out our trick they will definitely come here, start looking for our footprints. We need to wake your father."

I pack all my equipment and choose to keep the rifle in my hand rather than the bow. Then I shake Peeta until he wakes up, groggy and in pain. Somehow Jewel and I lift him to feet. We each hook an arm over our shoulders, suspending him between us. His legs provide little support.

"This way Mom, there is a large sinkhole nearer the big dam. We saw it coming here, but dad said it was a trap." We won't be here too long, I hope, so I agree. We retrace our steps south-west until we reach the hunters.

"Wait," says Jewel and we sit Peeta down. He flops against a tree, awake now but weak and disoriented. She goes to the nearest corpse and strips him of his rifle and ammunition belt. Then she repeats the activity on the net corpse.

"I already have a rifle," I say, admiring her initiative.

"One for me, one for dad. You should probably take ammunition."

I cannot fault her thinking so I check the bodies for the correct calibre of bullets. I take a knife as well and strap it around Jewel's waist. We drop the extra ammunition into my backpack, which adds considerable weight.

The two of us make quite a sight. Mother and daughter, both wearing coveralls and camouflage fatigues, laden with rifles, pistol, knives, a bow and quiver. We look ready for war, and that is exactly what I believe we are in. Jewel, a beautiful and soft teenager when I left, is now a tough young woman. I am both relieved and scared that she is with me. My relief is that I can look after her, keep her close to. My fear is that I cannot protect her and keep her alive.

We drag Peeta to his feet and make our way southeast, aiming to reach the sinkhole before any more hunters find us. We pass by the last body and I retrieve my visor. At the path in the forest we make better time due to the reduction in undergrowth. A hovercraft swoops overhead and heads north. It must be landing near the reservoirs where the first group disembarked. I change our heading to direct south. The going is more difficult but Peeta is regaining some strength, his legs no longer dragging on the ground.

An hour of effort leaves us all panting and in need of a rest. I call a halt and dole out food and water. It worries me that Peeta refuses the food but at least he quaffs a full bottle of water before slumping against a tree and closing his eyes. Jewel shares a concerned glance with me. I check the first aid kit and find another booster shot. The instructions advise an adult have a maximum one shot a day. I doubt the writers expected to encounter a case like Peeta's though, so I administer the third booster and force him to chew on some biscuits. Little did I think my first meal back with my family would be a hurried mish-mash of snacks as we try to avoid hunters.

After twenty minutes with Peeta lying on my lap I force myself up and coax him to his feet. The hunters will know we are no longer at the campsite by now and will have knowledge of the trackers moving. Jewel has been walking around the last five minutes checking for threats. She comes to us and helps me with Peeta, putting his arm around her shoulder again. We head south now, proceeding away from the reservoirs where I suspect the hunters were deployed.

We struggle downslope for twenty minutes as Peeta's weight makes it difficult to keep our feet. Peeta's condition reminds me of the days in our first Hunger Games when Cato had cut open Peeta's leg and he was too weak to walk, devastated by blood loss and poisoning. With each step though, I feel Peeta leaning a little more heavily on us. I hide my worry from Peeta and Jewel though, encouraging both to keep moving slowly but steadily.

A humming sound grows steadily as we slip and slide down the slope. I can see the cloudy skies to the south and suddenly a military hovercraft cruises into view. We stop our descent whilst we watch the hovercraft circle four times. They are searching for something. Perhaps another Contender. With all our focus on escape I have forgotten that there are other people in the arena. It felt for a while like it was just us against the hunters.

"Jewel, which way did the creek flow?" I ask, a fearful thought crossing my mind.

"It flowed right to left," is her reply.

"That's south. When I crossed it I was travelling east, so south was right. that means…"

"The hovercraft is looking for our trackers," Jewel finishes.

Our escape route has been cut off by our own actions. In trying to trick the hunters we have sent them in the direction we are heading.

"Sorry mom," says Jewel guiltily.

"It's not your fault, we didn't know how this would go. We just need to respond the right way. We need to reach a flat point so that Tarn can extract us. I was hoping south but if we go west we can reach the original field where you started the Games. We go west from here, along the edge of the dam, to the edge of the forest, then wait for Tarn to fly in. Let's get moving."

Jewel and I swap sides so that Peeta is higher on the slope than me. Despite being almost as tall as me Jewel is still not as strong so I take the heavier load. We make good time crossing the slope for half a kilometre until I see the dam on my left through the trees. We are in closer proximity that I wanted but it does make our path easier, so I maintain our course rather than angling deeper into the woods. After thirty minutes we encounter a dense laurel thicket and need to circle around it. I can feel Peeta and Jewel labouring alongside me so I call a break whilst I circumvent the thicket alone. After a quarter turn I find what I am looking for: a break in the laurel. I push through, the branches snagging on my overalls, scratching at my skin, until I break into an open area enclosed by laurel. It will be difficult for the hunters to find us here. I retrace my steps to Jewel and Peeta and persuade them to make one more effort. Going through the gap Peeta has to walk alone but he makes it through, only to collapse onto the leaf-covered ground inside the circle.

I check Peeta's temperature with the back of my hand. He is hot, hotter than he would be with our exertions. The antibiotics I gave him still need time to work, and he needs rest. This hollow will be our camp until tomorrow at least. I kiss Peeta's forehead and tell Jewel to sit with him, then I start a loop around our position. As long as I can maintain a perimeter around Peeta and Jewel I can keep them safe. Resting where we are is ideal, I couldn't wish for better cover. Do I dare switch on the radio?

My perimeter patrol is quiet for ten minutes until there is a crack in the trees near me; the crack of weight breaking a dead branch. A footstep I am certain. I'd know the sound anywhere, I have heard it enough through my hunting days. Within a second I'm on my knee, sighting down an arrow, inspecting every shadow, every movement, every change of colour. Nothing! But I know there is something, someone, out there. I steal back four metres and sidle left and forward. There! A movement. I see a dark green shadow amongst the brown bark and lighter leaves. Black hair confirms a person, a Contender.

I ease forward, avoiding a direct line to the Contender. I do not want someone throwing a spear or knife at me now, when I am so close to saving Peeta and Jewel. Should I ignore them and return to our copse? I decide to check who it is first. Maybe I can help. My spiral around and in to the location I spotted the person continues, as I wonder where the Junior is. By the time I have completed half a circle I am within a few metres of the position. There he is. It is a man, the father of Talon. Kneeling behind a tree I call out to him.

"Hey. It's Katniss…"

The crunch, rustle and high-pitched squeak as he jumps away from me into a low bush almost makes me burst out laughing. Perhaps an apology would be appropriate but I decide against it. Rifle lowered I approach his position. Talon is helping his father extricate himself from the bush, the branches and twigs provide an opposing force and seem to draw him back in. I wait until they are both standing before I talk again.

"Did you remove the trackers?" I ask, even though I see bandages on each of their arms.

"I have but dad still has his in," says Talon, visibly disappointed.

"Let me see," I say, stepping to him and removing the bandage before he can protest. A small cut half way up the forearm shows they tried but the pain must have been too much. I wonder how this man felt when his son managed to endure the pain that he couldn't. An idea forms in my mind as I examine the cut. The hunters will find them, kill them, if the tracker stays in. Although this man seems ineffective his son is strong. I could use his help.

I scratch through the first aid kit until I find the last patch and beckon Taylor over to me. Once I have applied the patch and tell him what it is I take my first good look at these two. The father is shorter than his son and soft. His skin is pasty, sweat drips down his temples through his peppercorn hair. His dark eyes, more black than brown, hide his pupils but I can faintly see they are enlarged. He is scared. On the other hand his son, Talon, is young and confident. He moves well, athletically. His eyes speak of instinctive intelligence. I would love to meet his mother. The contrast makes me wonder how it was Talon that I rescued and not his father.

I wait five minutes and then decide to remove the tracker. A fully grown man should be brave, take the pain. Talon takes his father's hands, holding them tightly. His action confirms my impression of him. My knife is sharper than an arrow head. It slices easily into the dark skin, more like a surgeon's scalpel than a hunting knife. To his credit the father grunts instead of crying out. I dig into the wound and hear the feint clink as knife hits chip. I draw it out, grab it with my fingers and pull, slipping once due to the blood. Then it is out and I crush it on a large stone.

"Follow me, we have a hidden camp, it is difficult to find. You will be safer there, and we have an anaesthetic patch." I turn and walk, not checking to see if they do follow, ignoring whether they are capable. It is their choice. If they want to live they will follow. A snap behind tells me two things, that they are behind me and that they wouldn't catch a cold in the forest, let alone any animals. I would never invite them to hunt with me, that is certain.

As we approach the camp I whistle four notes softly. It is the first time I have whistled the tune in a long time, probably since the first of my Games. I remember Rue, lying in the grass, enclosed in a shroud of flowers, the peace in her visage belying the violence of her death. She taught me the mockingjay trick to signal each other. I often whistled and sang with the mockinjays but I never used them to communicate. Rue's trick serves us well now. When we complete our path twisting around bushes and ducking under branches to appear into our camp Jewel is sitting by her father, holding his hand. Her rifle lays hidden between them. I cross to the other side of Peeta to check his health, ignoring introductions.

Jewel is surprised that I have companions although she doesn't ask any questions, adjusting ever-so-slightly to keep them in view. It is an awkward moment but she handles it well by introducing herself to Talon and asking his name.

"I'm Talon, this is my dad, Taylor Jasson. We're from Missippi," Talon's reply is delayed and I look over my shoulder to see him gawking at my rifle-wielding daughter. I'm going to have to get used to this when we are out of here, boys taking a shine to Jewel. I thought perhaps I was biased about her being attractive to the boys but Talon has confirmed it with his reaction to her.

Missippi? It seems I have a knack for making alliances with people from District 11. Rue was from 11. Thoughts of her have been popping into my head the last hour. Thoughts of our time together but mostly comparisons to Jewel. Jewel is older than Rue was in the Games. In fact, Stone is closer to Rue's age when she died. Could I bear to lose my child at such a young age? I remember Rue's mother, from the Victory Tour. Would I be as brave as she was if I lost my child?

Everyone settles down and after some thought I hand our spare rifle to Taylor. Although I believe Talon will be a better fighter than his father I don't want to alienate the father by showing him up in front of his son. I have a pistol which I may give to Talon if we are found by the hunters. Considering our position I doubt that will happen. We can wait out the hunters coming in from north and south and tomorrow I can radio Tarn to fly in and retrieve us. In the meantime I tell everyone to rest whilst I take first watch.

Two hours later I wake Jewel. I need to sleep and still do not know how much I can rely on the father and son. Before I leave I check Peeta. His temperature is the same as when we stopped. We can administer some more antibiotics at dusk, before darkness renders us helpless until morning. Inside the forest it will be very dark and we cannot risk a fire or light. If the antibiotics work as expected then tomorrow we will be able to get Peeta walking and out of the arena. For the first time in eighteen months I lay down next to my husband, my head in the snug hollow of his shoulder, my arm across his chest. And I sleep.


	40. Chapter 40

Endgame

"Mom … mom …" the urgency in the hiss increases. Jewel shakes my shoulder vigorously. It is late in the day, the streaks of sunlight lance through the forest almost horizontally. I shake the sleep off me as I sit up. Jewel has a rifle tightly gripped in her hand, the urgency of the movements telling me something is wrong.

"What is it?" I ask, rising quickly and quietly, my senses tuning to the vibrations of the forest around us.

"Hunters, we can hear them talking," she whispers.

I am up and moving quietly to the entrance of our hideaway, listening for sounds beyond nature's fence. Then I hear the calls. To the north. They are so confident they are calling out loud to each other, revealing their positions to anyone nearby. After their fellow hunters were decimated I would have thought they would be cautious. A real hunter would be. That thought gives me confidence. If they do find us I have a chance.

"They're going to find us!" Taylor startles me. He is standing a metre behind me, rifle held in both shaking hands horizontally across his chest. I reach over and push the barrel down so that it points at the ground. Then I see the safety catch is on. Of course. He won't be much help in a fight.

"Stay quiet, stay still, we sit them out. They'll go past. Just go sit, keep low." I nudge him toward his son who is sitting near Peeta. Next to him is my rifle. My heart double beats. Did he move there to get my gun? I stand quiet, watching them both. I have my pistol hanging on my back but the holster thong is hooked. I couldn't get it out fast enough if one of them knew about rifles. Of more concern is Peeta on the ground next to Talon, and Jewel standing a metres past Peeta. If I react and the hunters hear then we are in trouble, trapped in this grove.

Taylor makes it halfway to the others before he stops and turns to me. "They are going to find us! You trapped us here," he declares. The shaking in his hands has spread to his voice.

"Be patient, they will pass. I promise."

But he is not listening. He raises the rifle and points it straight at me. "They won't kill us, they only want you. You said so yourself. If they get you they'll leave the rest of us to finish the game."

"No, they won't. They will kill us all. You and your son included."

He swivels and points the rifle at Jewel, trying to cover her and watch me at the same time.

"No!" My whisper carries no force at all. "She is just a girl!"

He tells Jewel to drop her rifle which she does instantly.

I walk slowly but surely, keeping my distance from him, until I am between the two of them. Peeta is still passed out on the ground and Talon is staring wide-eyed at his father. He is up, my rifle in his hands, mover over to Taylor. Once I have Jewel protected I can respond to Taylor. I step forward two steps.

"Taylor, give me the rifle, we can all live through this. You have to trust me." Another two steps.

"No. You betrayed us all. You voted for this! It's your fault."

"I didn't vote for this. It was a lie." Two steps again. I am just over a metres away. He is shaking, the barrel weaving like a snake smelling for a meal. Instinct tells me to react so I take another step forward and grab the barrel of the rifle. In that moment he proves my assessment of him wasn't perfect because he pulls the trigger.

Click. His look of surprise matches my sense of relief as I rip the rifle from his hands. I look at his son who is standing quietly behind him, rifle still pointing at the ground. I step back two paces, trying to reduce the threat Taylor will be feeling. He surprises me again by yelling out, "Over here! She's over here!" As he starts again Talon clubs the side of his head with the rifle and he sags to the ground. Unconscious or lifeless, I am not sure, but I don't care either. I stare at Talon, shocked.

"He was my mother's husband," is all he says, as if that explains everything I need to know. Whatever it means I am grateful.

Shouting all around us brings me back to the present. Now we are in trouble. We cannot stay here. They will find us eventually. Best to move now before they have us completely surrounded. I check my magazine, release the safety and rush to Peeta.

"Let's get him up," I order, and both Jewel and Talon are with me as I wake Peeta.

"We need to go, now," I tell him as gently as I can. I doubt he fully understands but he still helps as we pull him to his feet. He needed a full night of rest and I feel guilty that I woke him, but if we don't move there will be permanent rest for all of us. Talon grabs him from one side and Jewel helps him, leaving me to guide us out and away.

The bushes are vicious as we crash through the thin pathway to the open forest. A branch tears at my right cheek, just below my eye. Another scratches my wrist, leaving a gouge ten centimetres out. My mind ignores the pain, it is too focused on the imminent battle. And a battle it will be. The hunters are about to meet the she-wolf. Only this she-wolf has more claws and teeth that they expect.

When the other three make it out, more scratched than I was, I send them south-west toward the dam. There is some clearer ground there, we will make better time once we reach it. As they go, Peeta stumbling between them, I whisper I will catch up. The bow is on my back but there is no need for stealth now, only brute force. I make sure I have the two spare magazines easily accessible before I start my hunt.

I duck through some bushes, flanking the hunters as they search for an entrance into our grove. There they are! Three of them, stepping cautiously forward. Can I make an assumption that they split the group, three going each way around the bushes that hid us? I can handle these three then hide and ambush the next three. The camouflaged hunters continue, oblivious that I am watching them from their right side. Once, long ago in 13, Gale and I went hunting. We came across a magnificent stag, a glorious set of antlers his proof of long life. I couldn't shoot that innocent stag that day. Now, with the three killers in front of me, I have no such qualms. When I have clear shots at all three I aim, breathe, fire. Six shots, that is all it takes, and I am not sure I needed all six.

The echoes are still reverberating and the smoke rising when a shot cracks through the trees to my right. The others were closer than I thought. How many? Maybe there are more than three. In an instant my legs are carrying me away through the woods, south-west. The hunters need to be neutralised but I also need to protect my family. Another shot, and another, whistle through the air, strike trees. I break south, keeping low, using a small gully to briefly hide my movement.

I hunker down behind an old, large sugar maple, trying to work out how I can ambush the other hunters. They will be looking for me now, checking in all directions. It is risky but I decide a course of action. We have sugar maples in 12. Their leaves are long and dense, perfect to hide me. Autumn brings the most beautiful colours, although now this one is still solid green. The first branch of the sugar maple is six feet off the ground so I jump and wrap my arms around it, swinging my left leg up and onto the branch. A wrestle with the branch and I am lying on it, chunks of bark clinging to my clothing. The climb up into the dense foliage is quick and easy, to a nook where it is difficult to see the ground and, more importantly, remain unseen.

This is where my other senses come into their own. Despite the problem with my left ear, after the explosion when I blew up the supply dump that Cato and his allies has gathered in the seventy-fourth hunger games, I still hear clearer than many. The hunters below are easing through the woods but the movement of branches, the rustle of leaves, and the scratch of foliage on their overalls give them away.

I hear sounds from three distinct locations which tells me there are at least three hunters tracking us. One passes within metres of my sugar maple and I catch a glimpse of him scanning for tracks. Will he see mine? No. He is moving again. I wait a minute then descend to the base of the tree where I quietly take out my bow, nock an arrow, and listen to the whirr as it flies across the glade and pierces the base of his neck, killing him instantly. The bump when the body hits the ground is soft enough to avoid alerting the other two ahead of me. The advantage is mine. Two more kills and I can call Tarn to fetch us.

Slipping from one tree to another, white oak, another maple, a beech tree, I gradually close in on the two hunters ahead of me. The one to the right is further away so I bear more left until I have a clear site of the hunter. He is calling out, breaking the silence of the last few minutes. Is he calling for his missing teammate? Time to act! I use the bow again, this time aiming slightly lower on his body due to the added distance. His back arches and he cries out when the arrow strikes between his shoulder blades.

As he falls I hear a shout from the right and hear the last hunter crashing through the forest. As he appears near his now-dead companion I let fly my third arrow but it misses as he drops to his knee, unaware that he was a hands-breadth from death. My view is blocked so I swap bow for rifle and fire four shots through a bush. The hunter drops forward head-first onto the body he was examining. My last target is down, now I need to call Tarn. But first, I need to find the Peeta, Jewel and Talon.

My path south-west leads me past the two dead bodies so I stop and check for ammunition. They have different calibre rifles to the one I am carrying so I move on, hoping Jewel and Talon kept their extra magazines. In my haste to reach them I jog through the forest, taking little care to mask my path. It is a mistake.

A force hits me in my back, like a horse kick. The blow knocks me forward and I land on my hands and face in the dirt. My back is in agony, I think a rib is cracked. What hit me? Then I remember, the crack of a rifle shot. I silently thank Tarn for insisting I wear the polycarbonate suit under my coveralls. I scramble left a few metres to a tree and regain my feet. Not knowing where the shot came from I decide to run, put some distance between me and my assailant, then turn and ambush them. Them? How many? My back is badly bruised, I can feel it already.

I wince and then sprint away toward a tree close by. Another shot followed by a bullet zipping past me. Not even close. The person must have been astonished I stood up from the first shot. My military training kicks in and I am weaving through the forest, ducking around trees, behind bushes, zigzagging my run. I cover two or three hundred metres like this, bullets flying all around me, before I hold up behind a red oak to catch my breath and give my battered torso respite.

There is more than one person behind me. The sound of the rifles tell me they are probably soldiers. The sound is deeper, more a thump than a crack. If I make it to my family the soldiers will catch them as well. I decide to head south instead. If they don't follow me I can get behind them. If they do I can try escaping down the slope to the dam. They would be crazy to follow me.

Peering around the tree to the right I see no-one so I break cover to the left, heading south. Bullets immediately whip through the forest. A few shouts tell me there are three or four people behind me, and at least one is a woman. I tumble over a root but manage to curl and roll through the fall, coming up on my feet and keeping my forward momentum. It can't be far to the edge of the precipice now. Moments later I break out of the thick forest into an open space where the dam is visible in front of me.


	41. Chapter 41

Peeta

Where to now? If I go west along the dam I will meet up with Peeta and drag the hunters straight to him. Can I dare run east? Will they see me? I check the trees around me but they are mostly dogwood. None provide decent cover; I would be like a tin can on a fence, waiting for someone to start shooting practise. Like my dad said to me once, the best form of defence is attack. Decision made, I start back east, keeping low and looking for a point to hide and wait for the hunters to pass.

Suddenly there are people ahead of me. I drop to the ground. Trying to remain hidden. There is a soldier, a huge man with full black clothing and a peak cap. His massive physique dominates his look but his eyes are the real attention-grabber. Small and white-blue, they scream cruelty. Behind him are three people in a cluster. Peeta, with Jewel and Talon! What are they doing here? They were supposed to be further west. Peeta is struggling; they must have stopped whilst I was hunting.

I take aim with my rifle at the mountain of a man but move my finger away from the trigger when I see two more soldiers, also in black, with rifles pointed at their prisoners. No, a soldier and Enobaria! So she has come to deal with me personally. She always hated me, even when my agreement with Coin saved her life. May be more so, because she owed me something. A plan to eliminate all three of the enemy is forming when the soldier at the front stops and points in my direction.

Enobaria steps past the lead soldier and holds her rifle in the air. "Come out Katniss, we have Peeta, we can see you there." The soldier at the back, another large man, pokes his rifle into Jewel's ribs. Desperate for a way out of the situation, I remain still, my weapon adjusting slightly to point at the second guard. He will be my first target. Then he steps behind Jewel, robbing me of a shot. I adjust my aim to Enobaria. Take out the leader, the others will not know what to do. That will give me the bigger of the two. After that the second soldier will use Jewel as a hostage, asking for a chance to escape.

"Katniss," calls Enobaria,"there is no way out. I will shoot them. Come out now. Ten … Nine … Eight …" She backs up and swings her hand-gun up to point at Peeta. "Seven … Six …Five…"

I raise the rifle above my head and struggle to my feet, my ribs and back aching from the bullet impact and subsequent exertions. I step into a clear area and walk slowly toward the group. Peeta is confused, Jewel scared. Talon I cannot read but he stands with knees slightly bent, like a snake ready to strike. Enobaria and her comrades don't move at all, keeping their positions, guns pointed at my husband, my daughter and me. Now Enobaria definitely has the advantage.

"Drop the rifle," orders Enobaria, "Keep walking to us."

I do as she says and maintain my slow pace, using the time to think of what to do. When I reach her I still have nothing.

"You OK?" I ask. Jewel nods, although her eyes tell a different story. She was brave before but now, in this hopeless situation, she is wavering. Peeta nods tiredly, his eyes closing for two seconds as he does so. Talon I cannot read at all, so when he nods too I assume he is the same as Jewel. How do I save them?

Enobaria approaches me, hand-gun held out in front of her, pointing to me. I wonder how humans grow as big as the guard who step over to cover Peeta when Enobaria moves toward me. I chastise myself. Focus! She is a metre away from me, her gun aimed at my chest.

"You had to do it, didn't you? Ruin my Games," she snarls, hate tangibly boiling off her like steam off a body in winter.

"It's Coin's fault, he shouldn't have put my family in. Take it up with him, if you need someone to blame."

My unexpected response stops her for a second, but only a second.

"No, it is you. You killed his mother, you are the killer. Not just you, your friends. People kill for you all the time. This," she says, waving her arm around, "this was meant to stop the killing. Now you come back and start it all again."

"There was peace before Coin. We didn't need the Games to stop the killing…"

"There was no peace, just suppression. We deserved to rule. Coin, the Victors. Not you, you who couldn't win on your own. The real Victors. Now you have ruined it all. It is all over. And you are going to pay!"

What does she mean 'It is all over'? The Games are over? Have they stopped the Games because of us? Maybe she has lost her job. No wonder she is angry.

"Just let us go. We will disappear, into the wilderness. You'll never see us again," I say, trying to coax some of her remaining humanity out of her.

"You want to leave? Sure. You can leave, but there is only one way you are leaving… in a body bag."

Her pistol barrel erupts in flame and smoke and the bullet hits me in the chest, hurling me off my feet and definitely breaking something. There is a scream, it is Jewel, and a cry from Peeta. I am winded before I even crash to the soil behind me and that completes the job. I struggle to breath in, my body is in total shock. I felt the bullet penetrate my skin this time, although only a bit. I lay still, gasping silently and without success. I am dying, I must be. I drop my head to the ground and my constricted throat opens, allow the air to rush in and save me from suffocating. My body is screaming in pain. Something broke. Perhaps another rib, or two. I felt it more than heard it. Every breath is agony but now that I can breathe again I cannot stopped panting rapidly. Every breath causes pain, causes more panting, causes more pain.

Enobaria is standing over me, looking down with revulsion. I stare up into her eyes and see no mercy there-in. In her hand is a shiny axe. The one side is a curved blade, the other is a tapered spike. She spins it mesmerizingly so that the blade and spike perform a gruesome dance around the axe pole. Then it is over her head, gripped by two hands. She has a smile on her face. I somehow reach behind and under me to grab my pistol. In this moment of crisis I deftly unhook the thong. She raises the axe a touch more, the last movement before she strikes.

Peeta crashes into her from behind, carrying her past me. Both crash into the ground. My gun is out and I shoot between my feet at the two soldiers before they have a chance to react to the situation. Both take bullets in the chest and stomach, then I shoot for the throats. I roll over, almost blacking out from pain, aiming my gun at the two people wrestling in front of me. Sick as he is, Peeta is still a strong man. He is favouring his one leg as he tries to take the axe from Enobaria. She is vigorous though and kicks out at his bad leg, breaking his balance. He drops to a knee and she starts to push him backward. With a surge he launches up and into her, pushing her backward until they plunge over the edge of the dam and disappear.

I scramble and crawl to the edge but can only see some dust where the two of them tumbled and flew down the slope. Jewel is screaming for Peeta, "Dad … Dad!" She is next to me, hands over her mouth now. Then I see Peeta, lying face down on a ledge thirty metres below us. Under him is Enobaria. Without hesitation I slide down the slope on my butt, my chest stabbing me in protest.

I reach Peeta and roll him off Enobaria and onto my lap, face up.

"Peeta? Peeta?" I stroke his face. I can't lose him now, I just got him back. "Peeta!" I shake him slightly, not knowing what injuries he has.

"Stop! Stop, Katniss, Stop," he gasps, and I wrap my arms around him, my tears dropping on his cheek as I hug him hard to me.

Jewel scrambles to a stop next to us. Her sliding descent is broken by Enobaria's body, which she shoves with her feet so that it slides further down the rocky slope. Then she is next to me, holding Peeta's hand. "Dad?"

Peeta opens his eyes at looks at us both. He starts to lift his arm but winces. He is badly injured.

"It's over Peeta, we are going to get out of here. I have a hovercraft waiting for us. The pilot, he is a friend, he will get you to a hospital."

"Not this time Katniss," he says, every word an agony.

"He is close by, he will be here soon," I insist.

"Just rest, dad, he will be here soon," says Jewel, picking up my story.

Peeta smiles at her. "My beautiful daughter. You have been so brave, keeping us alive. Not just here, at home, these last months. I love you. You should see her Katniss, she is amazing." He grimaces again.

Jewel grabs my arm, squeezing hard, holding back her tears.

"Peeta, she has always been amazing, just like you."

"At least this I saved you, Katniss," he says.

"You saved me before, Peeta, from the nightmares, from myself. You saved us all again."

"Not this time, Katniss," he repeats. His skin is white, damp to the touch, smattered with dust. I don't want to accept it but I know he is right. He is right, he is always right. What am I going to do without him?

"I came back for you Peeta, you need to live," I urge.

"We never gave up on you. The children, they knew. When I was trying to ignore my heart, they reminded me. Look after them, Katniss, they need you now, more than ever."

"Promise me Katniss, promise me you will stop it. This cannot happen again. Our people need peace, they need leaders. Only you can do it. Only you."  
"You were the Senator Peeta, you always know what to say. They need you."  
"I was a Senator but I would never have been President Mellark. That is your job. You need to lead the country now."

"I don't…"

"Promise me Katniss!" he coughs and moans with the agony.

Peeta has never asked me for anything. In our thirty years together this man, my husband, hasn't asked for anything. Ever. He only gave, or did. I cannot refuse him.

"I promise, Peeta, I promise. And you need to promise to come home."

He nods slightly, then closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing.

The light is almost gone now. The sun is low over the western horizon, the last vestiges of sunlight lighting up a few clouds above us, giving them an orange colour and golden outline. I look up at them and beg Connor's God to help me.

"We are all going home, dad, all of us. You need to come home, Stone is waiting for you," says Jewel, her voice desperate.

"Tell him I'm sorry, Jewel, tell him I was brave. Hold him as long as he needs."

She is nodding, mouthing 'I promise', unable to sound the words through her grief.

He looks up at the sky and smiles again. "Orange. My favourite colour." "Tell them the deep stuff Katniss, tell them it all." He manages to move his arm until it rests on Jewel's hand on my arm. "I love you all, I love you always."

Then he closes his eyes, his breathing ragged and uncomfortable. I want to call Tarn but Peeta is resting on me and I cannot move, will not move. Jewel is sobbing next to me and I realise my tears are streaming. We sit like this for five minutes, all three of us unable to speak. Then Peeta's breathing stops. I know the pain has stopped for him as well but I want to be selfish. I want him back. I bawl out loud, not caring who hears or sees. I reach over to Jewel and pull her to me and we cry together, unable to comfort each other. I look up at the orange sky and have to believe he will be up there watching us, caring for us as he always did. I can't believe it. My Peeta is gone!


	42. Chapter 42

Stone

Talon slides down the slope to us as the dusk deepens.

"We need to go, before more hunters come," he urges.

I realise we are in an exposed area but I do not want to leave Peeta's body here. Tarn! I take the radio from the cargo pocket on the side of my coveralls and switch it on.

"Tarn, it's Katniss. Tarn?"

"Katniss!" Tarn responds almost immediately. Was he sitting next to his radio? "Where have you been Katniss? I have been trying to call you. It's over, I can get you. Where are you?"  
"What's over?"

"The Games. Coin. All of it. I am coming in. Where are you?"

I am in shock. What does it all mean? I sit speechless for a few moments until Talon takes the radio from me and tells Tarn where we are. Within ten minutes a hovercraft flies over, descending toward us. Lights blare out across the slope, turning night to day as Tarn searches for us. Talon is up and waving, trying to draw the pilot's attention. Then the craft is above us, hovering as a cage lowers to our position. Jewel and I insist on placing Peeta's body on it first. The winch draws him up and away from us and I almost burst into tears again. Three more times the cage descends. First I send Jewel and then I follow, wanting to be with my daughter. Tarn and two other men are there to help me into the hold. When Talon is aboard the engines roar, the hovercraft shakes and we rise up and away.

We land near our lake, where I taught Peeta and the children to swim. The cargo bay door opens and in runs Stone, a full foot taller than when I saw him last. He launches into my arms and hugs me hard, crying "mama" over and over again. I hold him a long time before I finally disengage. Jewel is there and takes him in her arms, hugging him to comfort him and take support too.

"Where's dada?" it is the question we both were dreading. He draws back from his sister and asks again. Jewel shakes her head. His hair bounces as he looks rapidly from Jewel to me and back again. Realisation hits hard, almost a physical blow. "Where's dada? I want dada!" he shouts. I grab him and pull him to me, trying to stop the frantic threshing.

"He saved us, Stone, your dada saved us all," I say, but there is no pacifying him. He is shouting "No, no, no." Then he sees the sheet behind me and screams "Dada!" His pain is too much for me and I shed tears again, knowing that no-one can help you recover from the loss of a parent. How many years it takes to come to terms with it no one knows. Decades. I promise myself I will make sure I am there to help with the process.

My mother is at the bottom of the ramp, looking on. She stares into my eyes and it is only now that I realise fully what it was like for her to lose the man she loved. I pull Jewel to Stone and stand, walk down the ramp to my mother and hug her, my tears rubbing in her hair. And when I say a single word, "Sorry", she cries with me.


	43. Chapter 43

**Mellark**

Tarn explained everything to me later on. When the nation saw me on the screens in the Hunger Games many people revolted against the government. Johanna Mason was on the television telling everyone that I only voted for the Games to stop Alma Coin's suspicions of me, so that I could kill Snow. She explained why I killed Alma Coin and that Jason Coin became what his mother wanted to be, President and dictator, a replacement for Snow.

Riots started in all the Districts and many of the police joined the insurgency. Anyone loyal to Coin was apprehended or killed as a last resort. The police force declared martial law in favour of the Senate, not the President.

There was a coup in Otwa. Senior officers assumed command and arrested Jason Coin. Hours later a small group of soldiers attacked th e prison and flew off in a stolen hovercraft, which was last seen flying north into the wilderness. Tarn relayed a message from Milio that Feena was released and they had found Connor, hungry and dirty, but alive.

All the while I was scampering around in the arena, trying to protect my family. I thought long and hard about it. If I had called Tarn earlier he could have rescued us sooner. My guilt plagued me until my mother told me Peeta would have died from the poison in his system. The infection was caused by the wound but the poison had destroyed Peeta's immune system and he would not have recovered. No amount of antibiotics could have counteracted the effects of the poison. Still, my guilt still resurfaces periodically.

After the post-mortem we buried Peeta alongside the lake, high up on the western slopes so that he had a good view of the swimming hole and the house but was still near the forest so that he could hear the birds, especially the mockingjays. Everyone who visited the site always commented on how much the mockinjays in that area sang. I know why. The site also looked from the western slope across the valley to the east, where the most beautiful sunsets lit up the sky and the clouds in the most amazing orange.

The Senate messed around for nine months before announcing there would be a new process for selecting government. From now on people would vote directly for all candidates. There would be no Councillor voting any more. And there would be a President, but the President would answer to the Senate. They asked me to attend the announcement, scheduled for May 8. I consulted with my children and then accepted.

At the announcement I made a speech which I know Peeta would have been proud of. It may not have been as easy and flowing as one of his but it was passionate, and honest. It went like this:

_Today I am announcing that I am running for President. As President I will serve the people. I will never allow any process that denigrates and subjugates the people of the world. It will start with Panem but there are others in the world who need our help and leadership. I promised my husband I would lead Panem and I promised a friend I would free his people. To do those two things I need your help and support. I have raised a family and I can do it again, a new Panem family. I brought down a regime, twice, I can do it again! The Union doesn't want a fight but they picked on the wrong woman! Fighting and surviving is what I do best. I am Katniss Mellark!_


	44. Chapter 44

**Epilogue**

I look out of my office window over the city that has sprung up around the new government offices. When we moved the Capitol the people voted on the location and an overwhelming majority voted for Appalachia, and for the valley that hosted the Last Hunger Games. The mountains surrounding the city are not there as a defence against the outside world, they are the sentinels that remind us of our civic duties. Ten years ago, on those mountains, Peeta died, as did other victims. A memorial towers over the Mellark Dam where Peeta died, visible to the right of my view. We buried Haymitch and Beetee there too, heroes of the people both. Now there are only three of us left: Johanna Mason, Annie Odair and me, Katniss Mellark. One day we will take our places with our loved ones. But not yet.

...

Author's Note: This epilogue is set after Book 3, not yet completed. I have been told it is a spoiler so I have removed it for now. If you want the Epilogue please message me and I will send it to you.


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